Chapter 3 : The Call
Eight forty-two PM.
I was sorting gear on Marcus Harrison's bedroom floor when the phone buzzed. The sound cut through the apartment like a gunshot.
UMBRELLA SECURITY - PRIORITY ALPHA
My hand hesitated over the device. Priority Alpha meant emergency deployment. It meant something had gone wrong faster than expected.
The Hive incident wasn't supposed to start until tomorrow. The timeline I remembered had the commando team entering on September 23rd, after the Red Queen's defense systems activated. After everyone inside was already dead.
Something had changed.
I answered.
"Harrison." A clipped voice. Professional. "Staging Area Seven. Report in forty-five minutes. Mission briefing at 2200 hours. Acknowledge."
"Copy that. En route."
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone. Six hours early. The deployment had moved up by six hours.
This didn't match the films. The movies showed the team entering a facility already compromised—bodies on the floor, nerve gas deployed, everyone who worked in the Hive transformed into something that wanted to eat the living.
Early deployment meant they might be going in while people were still alive. While the Red Queen was still deciding how to respond. While the situation remained salvageable.
Or it meant something worse had happened that I didn't know about.
I grabbed my prepped duffel and moved.
Staging Area Seven occupied a converted warehouse on Raccoon City's industrial edge. The kind of building that looked abandoned from outside—rusty doors, broken windows, the casual neglect of a structure no one cared about.
Inside was different.
Fluorescent lights illuminated a space that hummed with efficiency. Weapon racks lined the walls. Equipment cases sat open on metal tables. Black-clad figures moved between stations, checking gear with practiced rhythm.
The Umbrella commandos.
I recognized faces before names. The woman in the corner—athletic, dark hair, inspecting an MP5 like she'd find its secrets through pure attention—was Rain Ocampo. She moved with barely contained energy, the kind of person who got restless when she wasn't fighting something.
The man beside her, checking magazines and cracking jokes I couldn't hear from this distance, had to be J.D. Salinas. Broad shoulders. Easy smile. The type who used humor to defuse tension because acknowledging fear was too much work.
Near the back, another commando worked at a laptop. Chad Kaplan—the tech specialist. Nervous energy radiated off him even from across the room.
And standing apart from everyone, reviewing documents on a tablet, was the man in charge.
Commander One. Real name unknown, rank classified, expression locked down tighter than the facility they were about to enter. He looked up when I walked in, and his eyes performed the kind of threat assessment that marked career military.
I'd seen that look before. Given it before.
"Harrison." One didn't bother with greetings. "Security Division attachment. You're backup support."
His tone made clear exactly what he thought of backup support from the Security Division.
"Yes, sir."
"This is a Sanitation team operation. You're here because someone upstairs wants eyes on the ground. Stay out of the way. Follow orders. Try not to get killed."
"Understood."
One's gaze lingered another moment—measuring, cataloging—then moved on. I'd been dismissed.
Rain had watched the entire exchange. She approached with the casual confidence of someone who didn't give a damn about hierarchies.
"New guy." Her assessment took three seconds. "You've got soldier in your spine, but that uniform says desk jockey. Which is it?"
"Does it matter?"
"Down there? Everything matters." She gestured vaguely toward the floor—toward what lay beneath them. "You freeze up when things get ugly, you're dead weight. Dead weight gets people killed."
"I don't freeze."
Her expression shifted. Curiosity replaced skepticism. "We'll see."
She walked back to her weapon check. J.D. said something that made her roll her eyes. The easy banter of a team that had worked together long enough to build trust.
I found an empty corner and started my own preparations.
Mag seated. Round chambered. Safety on. The Beretta went into its holster with a click that felt like coming home. Tactical knife—check. Flashlight—check. Chemical light sticks in my vest pocket—check.
The ritual steadied me. Same movements I'd done before every deployment in my previous life. Same methodical confirmation that equipment was ready and positioned for rapid access. Different hands performing the actions, but the muscle memory translated.
"Attention." One's voice cut through the staging area. "Mission briefing in five. Everyone gather."
The team assembled. Nine commandos total, plus me—the unwanted observer from Security Division. Rain stood near J.D., arms crossed. Kaplan fidgeted with his equipment belt. The others arranged themselves with practiced efficiency.
One activated a wall-mounted screen. Facility schematics appeared.
"The Hive. Underground research station, classified location. Approximately six hours ago, we lost all contact. No communications, no status updates, no response to standard check-in protocols."
He tapped the screen. The schematic zoomed to show entrance points.
"Primary access is through the Arklay Mansion, surface level. Secondary routes exist but are sealed during lockdown conditions. Our objective is to enter through the mansion, reach the facility hub, and determine what caused the communication blackout."
"Containment breach?" J.D. asked.
"Unknown. That's what we're there to assess. If the Red Queen has activated defensive protocols, we may need to perform a manual override. Kaplan, that's your responsibility."
The tech specialist nodded. He looked pale under the fluorescent lights.
"Rules of engagement," One continued. "This is a corporate research facility. Non-combatants may be present. Weapons free only on confirmed hostile targets. Property damage is to be minimized unless lives are at immediate risk."
Property damage. Non-combatants. The corporate double-speak almost made me laugh. Down in the Hive, there were no non-combatants anymore. Just corpses that hadn't stopped moving yet.
"Harrison." One's attention swung to me. "You're attached to the squad as an observer. That means you observe. You do not engage unless directly threatened. You do not deviate from the team. You follow my orders or you stay topside. Clear?"
"Clear, sir."
"Good. Equipment check in fifteen minutes. We deploy at 2300 hours."
The briefing ended. Commandos returned to their preparations. Rain caught my eye from across the room and gave a slight nod—acknowledgment, if not acceptance.
I finished checking my gear. The Beretta sat solid against my hip. The knife waited at my belt. The duffel with my additional supplies would stay with the transport—no point carrying forty extra pounds into an underground death trap.
Around me, the Umbrella commandos prepared to enter the Hive. They joked, they complained, they moved through pre-mission routines without knowing what waited below.
I knew. I knew about the zombies and the Lickers and the laser corridor that would cut most of them to pieces. I knew about the Red Queen's cold calculations and the nerve gas and the timer counting down to viral release.
The knowledge sat heavy in my chest. I couldn't warn them. Couldn't explain that I'd watched their deaths play out on a screen in another life. Anything I said would sound insane—and in the corporate paranoia of Umbrella operations, insane got you detained for questioning.
So I checked my equipment. Followed protocols. Waited for the transport.
The clock on the wall read 10:47 PM.
In a few hours, everything would change.
The transport rumbled through Raccoon City's empty streets. Military vehicle, unmarked, carrying ten people toward an appointment with hell.
I sat between Rain and Kaplan. The tech specialist's leg bounced in a constant rhythm. Rain cleaned her weapon for the fourth time. J.D. had stopped joking.
"First time underground?" Rain's voice was quiet enough not to carry.
"First time in this underground."
She caught the emphasis. Her eyes narrowed slightly—not hostile, just processing.
"Other shit holes, then."
"Afghanistan. Iraq. Caves full of people who wanted me dead." I kept my voice level. "Different context. Same concept."
"Huh." She returned to her weapon. The conversation was over, but something had shifted in how she held herself. Less dismissal. More consideration.
The transport stopped. One stood.
"We're at the access point. Kaplan, you're with me on technical. Rain, J.D., you've got point. Harrison, middle of the formation. Everyone else, standard patrol configuration."
The rear doors opened. Cool night air rushed in. Ahead, the Arklay Mansion rose against the trees—Victorian architecture gone slightly wrong, the kind of house that looked like it kept secrets.
We exited in pairs. Rain and J.D. first, weapons up. Then One and Kaplan. Then me, with two other commandos flanking.
The mansion's front door was already open.
One raised his fist. The team halted.
"Kaplan. Scan for life signs."
The tech specialist pulled out equipment I didn't recognize. He swept it toward the mansion's dark interior, watching readouts flicker.
"Multiple signatures. Spread throughout the building. They're not moving much."
"How many?"
"At least twelve. Maybe more—there's interference with the deeper readings."
Twelve signatures. In the movies, the mansion had been empty when the team arrived. Alice and Matt had been the only people above ground.
Another deviation from the timeline I remembered.
One made his decision. "We go in. Standard formation. Stay alert."
The team moved forward.
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