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The train hummed steadily along the rails, climbing toward the surface. Inside the car, even those who hadn't been bitten or scratched lined up for the antidote serum.
"I thought we were clear," Matt said, eyeing the injector warily.
"Airborne exposure," Kaplan explained, already rolling up his sleeve. He looked exhausted but relieved to be alive. "The moment we entered the Hive, we were breathing it in. Concentration was low, odds of infection maybe fifty-fifty, but..." He shrugged. "Why risk it?"
Alice counted the remaining vials. Three green ones left after Ryan, J.D., and Kaplan had gotten their doses. She handed one to Matt, took one herself, and passed the last to Marcus.
"Perfect timing," she murmured. "If there'd been one less..."
Marcus accepted the vial and administered the injection smoothly. Cool relief spread through his veins—the antidote purging whatever viral particles might have been lurking in his bloodstream.
That left five blue vials in the case. Five samples of the T-virus. Alice closed the case with a decisive click.
"Evidence," she said firmly. "When we blow the whistle on Umbrella, we'll need proof of what they created."
"If we survive the next hour," Matt said darkly.
Marcus said nothing. He was focused elsewhere—his consciousness extending behind them, tracking the thing that had been following the train since they'd left the Hive.
The Hunter clung to the tunnel ceiling, impossibly fast, keeping pace with the train like some nightmare creature from the depths. Its enhanced eyes glowed faintly in the darkness, locked on the metal cars carrying its prey. Claws scraped against stone as it prepared to leap—
Marcus pushed back with his telekinesis. Not hard. Just enough pressure to keep it from closing the distance. The Hunter stumbled, confused by the invisible resistance, falling behind by crucial yards. Then it would surge forward again, and Marcus would push back, over and over, a silent battle of wills that no one else in the car could see.
Can't let it catch up, he thought. Not yet. But I'm not killing it either.
Let Umbrella deal with their own monster. When they sent teams back into the Hive—and they would, Marcus was certain of that—the Hunter would be waiting. Perfect poetic justice.
He knew they'd return because he'd sensed something else during his mental sweep of the facility. Something the Red Queen's schematics hadn't shown. Deep beneath the Hive, far below the laboratories and containment levels, there was another space. A hidden level. Row after row of cryogenic pods in suspended animation chambers, life support systems humming quietly in the dark.
Umbrella's insurance policy.
Marcus recognized it from the original timeline, the knowledge sitting cold and certain in his mind. When Raccoon City fell—and it would fall, he knew that too—the Umbrella executives would fake their deaths. They'd use clones as decoys, golden cicadas escaping their shells, while the real power players slept safely in their hidden bunker beneath ground zero.
The most dangerous place is the safest place, Marcus thought cynically. Who'd think to look for them right under the outbreak site?
The train lurched slightly as it climbed the final approach to the surface station. Through the windows, emergency lighting gave way to the warmer glow of the mansion basement level.
"We're here," Matt said, tension evident in his voice.
Ryan and J.D. struggled to their feet, leaning heavily on each other. The antidote had saved them, but the virus had taken its toll. They looked pale, shaky, barely able to stand. Kaplan wasn't much better—Matt had to support him as they moved toward the exit.
Alice secured the virus case under one arm, her other hand gripping a fire axe someone had salvaged from emergency equipment. Marcus picked up a length of steel pipe, testing its weight.
The doors opened onto the underground platform. Beyond that, the passage leading up to Spencer Mansion's basement levels.
Marcus extended his awareness ahead of them, sweeping through the building above.
And stopped.
"They're waiting for us," he said quietly.
Alice turned sharply. "What?"
"Umbrella personnel. At least twenty of them. Protective suits, medical equipment. They're in the mansion lobby."
"How do you—" Matt started.
"Trust me," Marcus cut him off. "They knew we were coming. Probably had cameras watching the whole time."
"Then we're walking into a trap," J.D. said, voice weak.
Marcus met Alice's eyes. "Yeah. We are."
"So what do we do?" Alice asked.
Marcus hefted his pipe. "We spring it."
They emerged into the mansion lobby, and the trap closed immediately.
Umbrella personnel in white hazmat suits rushed in from multiple entrances, moving with practiced coordination. No weapons visible—these were medical and research staff, not soldiers. Their job was containment and capture, not killing.
"Don't resist!" one of them called out, voice muffled through his respirator. "We're here to help—"
"Help?" Alice spat. "Like you helped the five hundred people you murdered in the Hive?"
The first group reached them—seven men trying to surround Marcus and Alice while others moved to grab the weakened survivors.
Marcus didn't wait.
His pipe swung in a tight arc, connecting with the first attacker's faceplate with a satisfying crack. The man went down. Marcus flowed into the next strike, ducking under grasping hands, the pipe a blur of controlled violence. Two more men crumpled.
Alice moved like water, unarmed but deadly. She caught one attacker's wrist, twisted, used his own momentum to flip him into his colleague. Her elbow found another's solar plexus. He folded.
"They're still resisting!" someone shouted into a radio. "Request immediate backup! Both targets are combative—the woman and an unknown male—they're extremely dangerous!"
Marcus reached the radio operator in three strides and tapped him on the temple with the pipe. He dropped like a puppet with cut strings.
More hazmat suits poured in. A dozen, fifteen, trying to overwhelm through numbers. But these weren't fighters—they were scientists and technicians, uncomfortable in their protective gear, slow and clumsy.
"Back!" Marcus called out. "Everyone back into the corridor!"
They retreated as a group, Ryan and J.D. supporting each other, Matt half-carrying Kaplan, Alice guarding their backs. Marcus brought up the rear, pipe swinging to discourage pursuit.
"Hands up!" A new voice, harder and more authoritative. "Cease resistance or we will open fire!"
Marcus looked up.
Mercenaries. Real soldiers this time, not lab technicians playing at security. They filed in from the main entrance, tactical gear and assault rifles, night vision goggles pushed up on their helmets. At least a dozen armed men taking positions around the lobby.
"Into the villa!" Marcus ordered. "Now!"
They fell back into the mansion's interior, ducking through doorways into the darkened rooms. The lights were off—probably Umbrella's doing, trying to disorient them. But Marcus didn't need light to see. His telekinetic awareness painted a perfect picture of the space around them.
"They're coming in," Alice whispered. She'd positioned herself behind a stone pillar near the entrance hall, fire axe ready. "Multiple contacts."
Marcus stood opposite her, pipe in one hand, pistol he'd taken from an unconscious guard in the other. Through the doorway, he could see the mercenaries advancing cautiously, rifles up, moving with professional precision.
One of them spotted movement—Marcus's shadow, deliberately placed to draw attention.
"Contact!" the mercenary announced. "Visual on hostile, northeast pillar—"
He raised his rifle to fire at the shadow.
Marcus threw the pipe.
It sailed through the air in a perfect arc, telekinesis guiding its trajectory, and struck the mercenary's hand just as his finger tightened on the trigger. The rifle twisted aside, shot going wide, bullet punching into the floor.
Marcus was already moving. He closed the distance in heartbeats, faster than any normal human should move, grabbing the mercenary's rifle and wrenching it upward. The merc tried to adjust, bring the weapon back on target—
Marcus hit him with an elbow strike to the jaw. The man's eyes rolled back and he crumpled.
"Hostile is engaging! Multiple hostiles, they're—"
Gunfire erupted. Muzzle flashes lit up the darkened room like lightning, bullets chewing through furniture and ricocheting off stone. Marcus could see the trajectories in his mind, knew exactly where each round would go before it was fired.
He moved.
Rolling forward, using pillars and overturned furniture as cover, his body flowing through space like he was dancing. Bullets sparked off stone inches from his head. One round passed so close he felt the heat on his cheek. But none of them touched him.
Blue light flickered in his eyes.
He came up behind a different pillar, pistol raised, and fired three times. Three different mercenaries. Three headshots. They dropped without a sound.
"What the fuck—" another soldier started.
Marcus was already gone, rolling to new cover. More shots, more perfect accuracy. He wasn't aiming in any conventional sense. He just knew where to put the bullets, the same way he knew where the enemy fire would go. Precognition and telekinesis working in perfect harmony, painting probability paths through combat.
The remaining mercenaries fell back, confused and terrified. In thirty seconds, Marcus had dropped half their squad with a precision that shouldn't be possible in low-light conditions with return fire.
"He's not missing!" one of them shouted into his radio. "Every shot is a kill, how is he—"
Another headshot. The radio went silent.
In the darkness, Alice stared at Marcus with wide eyes. Behind her, Matt and the others watched in stunned disbelief.
"How..." Alice breathed. "How are you doing that?"
Marcus didn't answer. The last three mercenaries were retreating toward the exit, laying down covering fire. He waited for the precise moment when they'd have to reload—
There.
He stepped out of cover, absolutely calm, and fired three more times.
Silence fell over the mansion.
Bodies of Umbrella soldiers and support staff littered the lobby and entrance hall. Every single one of Marcus's targets had been hit exactly once, exactly where it mattered. No wasted bullets. No missed shots. Surgical precision in the chaos of combat.
Alice walked toward him slowly, staring like she'd never seen him before.
"Marcus," she said quietly. "What are you?"
He met her gaze, blue light still flickering faintly in his eyes before fading to normal brown.
"Someone who's done playing pretend," he said.
End of Chapter 49
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