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The sudden, rhythmic sizzle of static was like nails scraping across glass, cutting through the heavy silence of the lab.
Claire jerked as if she'd been struck by a live wire, her hand flying to the radio at her waist. She snatched it up, her thumb crushing the talk button. "Copy that, Leon! We hear you! Repeat, we hear you!"
The signal was a ghost, drifting in from the far side of a deep sea, battered by the thick concrete and steel of the facility. A voice—weak, familiar, but barely a whisper—squeezed through the interference.
"...I... injured... in... the break... room... help..."
The line flatlined into a hiss of static. But the message had landed.
"Noah!" Claire turned, her voice sharp with alarm. "Leon's hit. He's in a break room somewhere near here."
Noah's finger stopped instantly on the map. He didn't waste words. He leaned over the massive structural diagram of the facility, his eyes scanning the maze of pipes and sectors.
"We're near B5, the Waste Disposal Area," Noah said, his finger tracing a winding line toward a small square. "The nearest worker's break area is here. It's a circuitous route through a cross-shaped corridor, but we can make it in five minutes if we move."
"Then let's go!" Claire grabbed Sherry's hand. The little girl's face was a mask of worry; she knew Leon had only been alone because he was trying to lead the monsters away from her.
They plunged back into the metal tunnels, their boots drumming a frantic, echoing rhythm against the floor. When they reached the cross-junction Noah had pointed out, the acrid scent of cordite hit them.
Noah stopped, crouching low. He touched a few brass shell casings scattered on the grating. They were still warm. He looked at the wall where a thick pipe had been shredded by gunfire, the jagged metal edges still faintly glowing from the heat of the impact.
"This is the spot," Claire whispered. "The room has to be close."
They broke into a jog, stopping only when they reached a heavy iron door marked WORKERS' BREAK AREA. Noah gripped the handle, caught Claire's eye, and shoved it open.
Leon was face down on a rusted iron cot. His tactical vest was a crumpled heap on the floor, and he was drifting in that dangerous space between exhaustion and unconsciousness. He didn't even look up until their footsteps hit the linoleum. He jerked awake, his blue eyes wide with a panicked wariness that only melted when he recognized them.
He let out a long, shuddering breath, as if he'd been holding it since the shooting started. He tried to prop himself up on his elbows, wincing as he tugged at his T-shirt, which was a sodden mess of sweat and blood.
"Took you long enough," he rasped, a ghost of his usual sarcasm returning. "I was just dreaming that my great-grandmother had come to take me for a walk. She looked a lot like a Valkyrie."
"Save the stand-up routine for later," Noah said, his voice dropping into a clinical, no-nonsense register. "Let me see the damage."
Noah's easygoing demeanor was gone. He moved with the absolute authority of a surgeon. He checked Leon's pulse and touched the side of his neck. The skin was radiating an abnormal, dry heat.
"Low-grade fever," Noah muttered. "Not good."
With Noah's help, Leon managed to peel the shirt away. His back was a map of old scars and fresh trauma, but the centerpiece was a terrifying, dark purple swelling beneath his left shoulder blade. The skin around it was an unhealthy, bruised greenish-black.
Noah pressed a finger to the center of the mass.
"Ow—!" Leon's jaw slammed shut as a cry of agony escaped him. He gasped for air, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the bedframe.
"Claire, surgical kit. Alcohol and betadine. Now." Noah didn't look up. "And pull the green, red, and blue herbs from my side pouch. Wash them with alcohol."
Since entering Raccoon City, Noah had been collecting the local flora—herbs that most saw as decorative but that his knowledge of Traditional Chinese Medicine identified as potent catalysts for healing. Claire had joked he'd win a Nobel Prize if they ever got out; Noah just wanted to keep his friends alive.
Claire moved with practiced speed, laying out the scalpel and tweezers. Sherry joined in, carefully washing the colored leaves with drinking water before drenching them in alcohol.
Noah donned a mask and sterile gloves. He pressed a cold, soaked cotton ball onto the bruise. "Brace yourself, Leon."
Leon gritted his teeth, sweat pouring down his face as Noah picked up the scalpel. With a surgical flick of his wrist, Noah made a tiny incision at the peak of the swelling. A stream of dark, stagnant blood rushed out. Noah worked quickly, inserting a small drainage tube to relieve the pressure on the nerves.
Leon's body, which had been as tense as a sheet of iron, slowly began to sag. The piercing throb in his back was fading into a dull ache.
Once the drainage slowed, Noah took the three herbs and crushed them in his palm, squeezing every drop of the mixed dark green, red, and blue juices onto a clean gauze pad. He applied the herbal poultice directly to the wound, the pungent, medicinal scent filling the small room.
"Ugh!" Leon groaned as the herbs began to sting, but Noah ignored him, securing the dressing with medical tape and wrapping a bandage around his torso.
Finally, Noah held up the remaining ball of squeezed herbal residue. "Eat it."
Leon looked at the black, wet, foul-smelling lump. He shut his mouth tight and shook his head with every ounce of strength he had left.
Noah's expression didn't change. "Unless you really want to go for that walk with your great-grandmother, you'll swallow the medicine, Leon."
Leon's eyes darted to Claire, who just offered a sympathetic shrug. He looked like a puppy being forced to take a bath. He opened his mouth, and Noah unceremoniously stuffed the residue in.
The explosion of bitterness, spice, and earthy musk hit Leon's tongue like a grenade. His face turned a vibrant shade of green.
"Don't chew. Swallow," Noah commanded.
Sherry cleverely unscrewed a water bottle and handed it over. Leon snatched it, gulping down half the bottle until the "iron pineapple" of medicine finally went down. He slumped back onto the bed, tongue out, breathing like a catfish on a dock.
Claire couldn't help it; she burst out laughing. The sound was a clear spring of joy in the middle of a graveyard. "Effective medicine always tastes like dirt—isn't that the saying, Noah?"
Noah pulled off his mask, a tired smile reaching his eyes. He turned to give Leon instructions on his recovery, only to find the rookie was already out cold, his breathing deep and steady for the first time all night.
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