George Trevor cherished nothing more than his daughter, Lisa. Before her birth, his life was enviable. He had wealth, a beautiful wife, and a satisfying job as the head of his own architecture firm.

Yet, like many men, he had a sense of doubt niggling at the back of his mind. He continued on, but deep down, his burnout was morphing into a deep existential pit.

Nowhere was that clearer than in his architecture. He wanted buildings that screamed ‘George Trevor’ instead of ‘boring modern design trends.’ Clients were growing uneasy.

That meant that, for the first time since he was a fresh-faced junior, George had to argue his vision. And, for the first time ever, they were arguments that he lost. He was the expert, but the customer was always right. So, George gave them the building they wanted, and it tore him up inside.

Then, Lisa came along.

When Jessica announced that she was pregnant, he dropped all work for nine months to support her. It was a relief to be free from the cavalcade of boardrooms and boring businessmen.

When George first cradled the crying Lisa in his arms, he had a striking realization. For the first time in forever, he felt the joy of creation. It was a feeling that Trevor had yet to feel again until, over a decade later, at the Spencer Estate.

This building was his magnum opus—the culmination of five years of work. He received carte blanche to indulge his wildest ideas and inspirations. The design of this gothic behemoth drew from both the Regency and Second Empire styles. Influences spanned from Spencer’s childhood home to the Gaston d’Orlèans wing of the Château Royal de Blois.

Yet, as the cab pulled closer to the building, Trevor felt more like Harker on the carriage to Castle Dracula. There was the thick blanket of fog, the cawing of crows, the howl of the wind, and then there was the mansion’s new owner.

George didn’t want to seem judgemental, but Oswell E. Spencer had a disconcerting air about him.

The two only corresponded through writing. Spencer’s words gave the impression of many undesirable traits. He seemed forceful, secretive, misanthropic. Like he planned to lock himself inside the mansion and only come out to hunt unlucky hikers for sport.

As he knocked on the large wooden door, he closed his eyes. He pictured sitting near the roaring fireplace, Jessica’s hand in his as Lisa sat in his lap. It had been weeks since he’d seen them, and he’d missed them more than he thought it was possible to miss anything.

There was a click, and the door slid open to reveal its innards, beckoning him inside.

Then, George jumped as the door slammed shut behind him, compelled by the air. A click reverberated through the room as its lock engaged.

Oswell E. Spencer, the CEO of the Umbrella Corporation, was waiting for him in the dining room.

The dining room felt off, from the unsettling echo of the grandfather clock, to the dim lighting. The largest source of light was the fireplace, intended to give the room a welcoming glow.

However, a throne-like chair obstructed said light, a terrible mistake. The dining room was a calming space for loved ones to bond over a homely feast. It appeared Spencer had changed the designs.

George took his seat, eyeing the tantalizing food. His stomach rumbled, and he realized how hungry he was. The aromas drew him closer and closer, his mouth watering in anticipation.

“Excuse me.”

The voice caused George to jump in his seat. He turned to the chair in front of the fireplace, where a silhouette leaned closer. This was Oswell E. Spencer, with his commanding presence and deep voice.

“I’m so sorry! Where are my manners!” George stammered.

“Don’t worry, I won’t make you say grace.”

George wasted no time in sampling the food. It was a delightful macadamia puree and oscietra caviar in a kelp-based sauce. He was about to raise the glass of Château Cheval-Blanc to his mouth when Spencer lit an expensive cigar.

“I know what you’re thinking, George. These things will kill me.”

George shook his head. “No, sir. You seem like the type of person that plans on living for a long time.”

Spencer smiled. They discussed work, then switched to art, politics, and philosophy. They may have disagreed on a lot, but George could feel himself loosening up.

“When will I get to see Jessica and Lisa?”

Spencer recoiled, as though offended at the question.

“Sorry. My family. They arrived here a week earlier. I’d like to see them as soon as I can.”

“All in good time, my friend. I assure you that they are in safe hands. I hope I am offering adequate company in the meantime.”

“Of course,” George chuckled. “It has been a week since we saw each other, and well—y’know, Lisa with her—“

“With her illness, yes. I’m aware. It was one of the reasons you agreed to work with me, yes?”

George lowered his head. Spencer was right. Right when life’s dominoes had fallen into place, Lisa faced a disease with a long, complicated name. While it wasn’t terminal, it was debilitating, and its treatment came with a hefty price tag. Spencer’s financial offering meant that they would never have to worry about Lisa’s care again.

“Believe me, George, there is nothing that I value more than family. The last thing I want is to keep you separated.”

“Do you have a lot of family, sir?”

“George, I run one of the largest companies in America. I’ve given Umbrella my blood, sweat, and tears every day for as long as I can remember. It is my baby—my last surviving legacy. As far as I am concerned, all who work under me are a cherished member of my family.”

The next day did little to ease George’s fears, as Spencer led him through a tour of his work.

His questions about his family were all dismissed. Then, there were the mysterious people shuffling through the place. George would spot lab coats, security officers, even hazmat suits smelling of disinfectant.

George spent so much time drawing up, studying, and revising the plans for the Spencer Mansion. He could have recreated them from memory. Yet, he kept noticing aspects that were inconsistent with his designs.

In George’s work, it was a major faux pas to make design changes so early in a building’s lifespan sans consultation. There were three reasons for this.

First, it was disrespectful. It dismissed the work he put into optimizing the building’s design.

Second, it was dangerous. Part of his job as an architect was ensuring that his buildings adhered to safety codes.

Third, it was suspicious. George wasn’t naive. Many rich people partook in illegal activities that they wanted buildings to hide. That was why, in the event of design discrepancies, he would always go to the police. The few false alarms were worth it.

Of course, George couldn’t run by the same playbook in this circumstance. With a man of Spencer’s stature, it was likely that the police were on his payroll. Even if they weren’t, how were they going to search a place this complex? It would take weeks.

Then, there was the pressing issue that he couldn’t leave without Jessica and Lisa. They both had to be somewhere on the premises, and the only thing keeping them apart was Spencer.

George was starting to panic.

“Are you not feeling well?”

Spencer stared at him with a shrewd businessman’s approximation of concern.

This is all wrong!

Spencer had led George into what appeared to be a small art gallery. As he stepped onto the hardwood floor and took in the beige walls, he wanted to tear his hair out. Spencer commissioned this hideous room behind his back.

“What is this?” George responded in a dry monotone, choking down his frustration.

“There are many rooms inside this mansion that I admire” Spencer started. “But, this one is my favorite.”

“Why would that be?”

Spencer indicated to the portraits that adorned the walls.

“It celebrates life. Fitting for a man in my line of work.”

George scanned the paintings. Each one depicted a stage of a person’s lifespan, starting with a newborn baby and ending with a gloomy grave.

“It’s only a room,” George shrugged.

“You sure? Look closer.”

Spencer directed George’s attention to an information card that accompanied the largest painting. He leaned in close, reading the dark serif typeface on the marble white cardboard.

All living things are destined to die…

A sharp sting plunged into his neck, followed by the cool sensation of liquid filling his veins. His vision split into blurry afterimages, his legs buckled underneath him.

Then, everything went black.

2/8 Keith Street, Oakleigh East VIC 3166

A small flame flicked from George’s lighter, offering a limited view of his surroundings. Where exactly was here? Given how cold, hard, and damp it felt, this place had to be underground. It was a safe bet that it was also under the mansion.

He took a step on the stone floor, feeling a weight shift beneath his Italian-leather shoe. A sudden burst of air flew past his calf, followed by a sharp sting.

Scowling, George lowered the lighter to his inflamed leg, revealing a fresh wound. Even lower, and he found a pressure plate.

That was not in my brief.

Nearby were other pressure plates, no doubt ready to inflict the same pain. George tore at his sleeve, wrapping it around the cut with a grunt. He fought his shaking limbs, limping across the floor. Every so often, he would feel a puncture—in his forearm, between his shoulder blades, grazing his neck.

He stumbled into a small room with cobblestone walls lit by medieval torches.

“I see you’ve passed your physical, Mr. Trevor!”

The voice was Spencer’s, regurgitated through a crackling speaker.

“But, an intellectual such as yourself knows that the body is only part of one’s true test. When I met you, you had such a sharp mind. Let’s see if that still holds true…”

Gears whirred through the walls, as though some long dormant mechanism had activated.

Is it getting hotter in here?

In the center of the room was an elaborate statue. A hulking behemoth with chiseled features fought a serpent with bifurcated mandibles. At the feet of this colossal battle was a plaque that read ‘Gelzer and the Sea Snake.’

The giant’s weapon was a miner’s pick-axe, an anachronism for a Roman Centurion. George wrapped his hands around the tool’s handle, ignoring its hot surface. With a bit of force, it came free.

Squinting through globs of sweat, his first instinct was to tunnel out with the pick-axe. This was a beginner’s trap. Doing so would tire one out, making it easier to succumb to the rising heat.

Then, he spotted it—a small section of the wall, about the size of his hand, had expanded, taking on a deep blue gradient.

The deductions came fast. This section of the wall had to be steel, leading to both thermal expansion and the formation of an oxide layer. That explained the warping and color change.

He lifted the pickaxe, pressing its end against the metal surface, causing it to bend.

A gust of air spilled into the room as a section of the stone wall broke apart with a deafening slam. He threw himself through the new opening, landing with a thud. He remained on the ground, panting and drooling as the wall closed behind him. With the torchlight cut off, he was back in the uncertainty of pitch blackness.

“Excellent work,” Spencer crooned through another speaker. “It appears you are more capable than even I thought.”

An alcove greeted George with a tall burgundy bookcase. It was well stocked with books, their colourful spines drawing him closer. A small fireplace offered some warmth.

A velvet armchair sat nearby, a small table dousing it with the warm light of a brass lamp.

George lowered himself into the chair, half expecting it to spring some kind of trap. He was too exhausted to care.

As soon as he felt the cushion press underneath him, there was a click, and a folder jutted out from between the books. At first, the contents confused him. They were physical diagrams and X-rays flanked by medical miscellanea. He was an architect, not a doctor.

Methods

We will administer the Progenitor Virus (Type B) to two subjects. Subject A (F, 44) is healthy. Subject B (F, 12) is experiencing symptoms indicative of Spontaneous Tumor Lysis Syndrome in Idiopathic Primary Myelofibrosis. We will track their symptoms and behaviors, and examine DNA samples for any significant alterations, especially those inconsistent with previous subjects.

Results

As expected, Subject A experienced the same symptoms as previous test subjects. However, Subject B appears to have experienced a more advanced mutation. She will need continued monitoring.

Conclusion

The Progenitor virus does more than repair damaged cells. If conditions are correct, it can induce extensive mutations in the human body.

END OF ABSTRACT

George’s hands shook with a mix of rage and terror. The report didn’t name names, but he knew exactly who the subjects were. George took the next document and held it under the light of the lamp.

Tape: progen-lt002

Duration: 2m 50s

Date: 10/11/1967

START TAPE

SM: Describe the patient’s current condition.

HK: She’s a remarkable specimen. Any signs of her illness have all but disappeared. She doesn’t seem to share the same compulsion toward violence that her peers did when infected. It’s as Spencer suspected. Her genome holds the key to the next stage of our research with the Progenitor virus.

SM: Excellent. Anything else to report?

[pause]

SM: Doctor. Anything else to report?

HK: The subject is… smarter than the others. She remembers her mother—asks for her every chance she gets—gets aggressive when we tell her she’s not here. She’s getting harder to subdue.

SM: So?

HK: [sighs] I can’t believe I’m about to say this… We hired a lookalike—I’m talking an exact imitation. We’re hoping that she can placate the subject while we work.

SM: As long as you continue to yield results—

[inaudible]

SM: What the [expletive] is going on?

MM: She’s lost it. I don’t know how, but the subject saw right through the imposter, and they’re [expletive] pissed.

[inaudible]

HK: Holy [expletive], she’s dead, isn’t she?

SM: This is not good. You’ll need to present an incident report.

HK: What the [expletive] happened to her face?

MM: She—it took it. The subject took her [expletive] face.

[inaudible]

When I find Spencer…

A sudden noise snatched George’s attention. He turned to see a figure emerge from the dark, its head down, messy auburn hair obscuring its face. Arms dangling by its sides revealed pallid flesh dotted with burgundy needle marks.

George’s heart sank.

He was looking at his wife.

“Jessica?”

The word didn’t seem to compute.

“Jessica,” George stammered as she grew closer. “That report made it sound like you were dead.”

She snapped to attention. Her head raised to reveal wide eyes with dilated pupils and a mouth caked with foamy saliva. With an inhuman shriek, she knocked George to the floor. As far as she knew, he was a mobile piece of meat. With a grunt, he freed himself and stood up, trying to calculate his next move.

There were no weapons in the immediate vicinity—only books, an armchair, and a fireplace. He couldn’t let his wife continue to suffer like this. As much as he kept telling himself otherwise, he knew deep down that there was no cure for a condition like this.

She had to die. He needed to be the one to do it.

There were many ways to murder his beloved wife, his childhood sweetheart, and the mother of his child. He could smash her head against the stone wall, or bludgeon her with a particularly thick book. He could even stab her with the lamp.

Bile climbed up his throat, ready to eject at any moment. These thoughts weren’t helping. They were only making him sick. He wasn’t a killer.

Only one thought stopped him from sinking to the floor and giving up. That was of Lisa—of Spencer’s men experimenting on her as she wondered where her parents were. If there was an afterlife, he’d never rest knowing he allowed that to continue.

Jessica charged at him. Like a matador, he shifted his body, watching as she sailed past him, landing square in the fireplace. She collapsed as fire engulfed her body. She didn’t react in pain, staring forward as her flesh melted away in dark globs that stuck to the floor.

George shielded his eyes, the tears drying up as Jessica reduced to a charred pile of bones. He hoped that, wherever she was now, it was at the very least peaceful.

Behind her, the fireplace had lost its flame, the back wall sliding open to reveal a new section of the tunnels.

George crouched into the small, confined space, grazing his head as he peered inside. On the floor was a pressure plate.

Spencer meant that for me. He wanted me to reach inside the fire for my means of escape.

George crawled through the space, leading to a staircase. He trudged up the stairs, preparing for whatever was waiting on the other side.

He stumbled into a guest bedroom. With its large windows, ornate walls and lack of furnishings, it did little to hint at the horrors below.

Even with the changes that Spencer had made, George navigated the mansion’s corridors. He darted from cover to cover. He hoped Spencer was busy celebrating the death of the meddlesome architect. It would be the first advantage he had all night.

Then, there were footsteps. George risked a peek from around the corner. It was one of Spencer’s armored guards. He paced back and forth like a wild animal stalking prey, a submachine gun in his gloved hands.

Christ, I hope he’s not looking for me.

The mysterious officer stepped out.

“Ground floor sweep complete. No sign of B.O.W. Requesting orders.”

B.O.W? What the hell is that?

“Acknowledged. Continuing sweep.”

George grabbed a nearby vase, ignoring the sheer weight as he cradled it outside. The officer wasn’t paying any attention as his call continued. Before he could respond, George brought the vase down onto his head. The effects were instantaneous. The enemy was down.

George pulled the officer aside and searched his person. He unfolded a map, stretching it aloft before him. His strained eyes settled on the labs, marked in a navy blue ink amidst harsh black lines. They had to be Lisa quarters. They’d have the door guarded, too. There was no getting the drop on them.

Run while you still can.

That was what his brain was telling him. That was the logical thing to do—get out of here and get back to Raccoon City.

Except, was it?

How long would it take to navigate the forest? He was high up in the Arklay Mountains, after all. It would be dark, freezing, and draining, even if he wasn’t sporting wounds from his time underground. Then, he still had to convince the police to raid the home of one of the wealthiest men in the world?

It wasn’t logical—at least, not if George’s plan was to rescue his daughter.

George’s stomach lurched. Was his brain trying to justify abandoning Lisa to her cruel fate? Was it so convinced that the odds were against them, that it was trying to make him perform the unthinkable?

He shuffled through the corridors in a bulky suit that was too big for him. The cumbersome headgear weighed on his head, bringing an ache to the back of his neck. He pushed on, even as the fog of his rapid breaths obscured his vision.

“Report!”

The order compelled him to stand up straight. Should he say something? What if there were call signs or code words? Did they already see through his thin disguise?

“What happened to your helmet?”

Fighting the lump in his throat, George answered.

“Nothing—uh, everything’s fine… sir!”

Did that work? Was that even loud enough? I need to clear my throat and try again.

George wasn’t surprised when the helmet yanked off him, exposing his damp head to the coldness of the room. A loud crack filled his skull, exploding through his ears with a searing pain.

“You Trevors are slippery, aren’t you?”

George’s head lolled as he got to his knees, the back of his skull still reeling from where it met the butt of a gun.

He blinked several times, forcing his eyes to register what was in front of them. But, it was all to no avail.

Great. It’s either completely dark, or I’ve gone blind.

“When we couldn’t find your body, I assumed you’d escaped. I almost sent an entire squad to the forest to look for you.”

I need a light.

George was still wearing the soldier’s garb. These were the same guards whose flashlights were on their guns, like the one he no longer had.

“Imagine that,” Spencer continued. “An elite squad of mercenaries gunning for you as you bummed around the forest. It would be like a game to them. Less than child’s play.”

He dragged himself across the floor. He wasn’t even sure he was heading in the right direction. Was there a right direction, or was Spencer sending him in circles?

“Props to you, George. Your wife was a total pushover, but you two raised a little fighter in that daughter of yours. Her illness will trouble her no more. Unfortunately, though…”

Ignore him.

“You won’t recognize her anymore. Little Lisa has blood on her hands.”

Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.

George wished that Spencer was in the room with him. He imagined the look on Spencer’s face when he grabbed him and proceeded to break every bone in his body.

“You should’ve seen the bodies she left behind when she reached the front yard.”

An enraged scream burst from George’s chest. Part of him hoped it would drown out his captor, but Spencer’s speech continued.

“The dogs jumped her immediately. No matter how hard she fought, they kept going until she was down.”

George stopped himself. His fingers were now pressed against a stone construct, but it had a different texture to the floor. It was smoother, as though a professional had shaped, cut, and polished it.

Like a tombstone.

His hands trembled as he pressed the front. Of course, the effort was a mere formality. There was no fooling himself. He knew exactly what this said.

HERE LIES

GEORGE TREVOR

BELOVED HUSBAND AND FATHER.

(1920-1968)

R.I.P.

“Daaaaaaaaaaaaaa…”

What?

“Lisa?” George called out. “Lisa, is that you?”

“Da… da…”

It was Lisa’s voice. George could have recognized that from anywhere. But, it was deeper, with the texture of a thousand tiny hooks. She was now towering over him, having doubled in size.

“Daddy’s sorry, Lisa. Daddy’s so, so sorry.”

George sobbed as Lisa raised her elongated arms high above their heads. Then she brought them down. His skull split open. His jaw shattered into pieces. His eyes flattened in their sockets, blood vessels bursting. His brains poured out, chunks running in strands down his face like tears.

That was the end of George Trevor.