He loved his parents.

They were the most accomplished in their field, and unmatched in compassion. They balanced raising him with saving the world through rigorous science experiments. Their family was the subject of envy. Not because of the sheer wealth their peers enjoyed as staff of Umbrella, but because they didn’t need it.

Everything was so perfect.

He was in math when he got the news. A pair of burly security guards in suits ordered the teacher to let him leave. The drive was quiet enough to drive him crazy.

When they led him into Umbrella’s reception, one of his parents’ co-workers rushed to greet him. She crouched down, getting eye-level with him. Then, through tears, she confirmed the worst.

His beloved parents were dead.

The rest of her words formed a mist around him. As she tried to reassure him that everything would be alright, he stared over her shoulder. To anybody around him, this would make perfect sense. He was a ten year old in shock.

Except, they were all wrong. For him, the shock had long passed. He was plotting—waiting for the perfect moment.

It came when the woman rose to her feet. He could sense the brief moment in which all eyes would be on her. That was when he braced himself.

Then, he ran.

He stalked the halls of the facility like a spy. He was well aware of the danger he’d put himself in. If he got caught, he’d get in trouble. If he walked into the wrong room, he could get very sick.

But, he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t turn back. He knew that he was heading in the right direction when a smoky stench filled his nostrils. He turned a corner to see long, ashy streaks spilling from a pair of opened doors.

The doors themselves were stuck in their frame, their metal tilted and warped. Since they couldn’t close, the only obstacle was a web of yellow caution tape.

All he had to do to find the truth was cross it.

It was easy to picture what this place once looked like. The desks and cabinets had melted, and the walls were jet black. But he could see his parents interacting with complex scientific equipment. He could imagine their joy as their experiment delivered favorable results.

What he struggled to picture, though, was the accident they made that could have caused this fire. He never saw his parents work. They would never let any unauthorized person inside, let alone a child. But, he knew the type of people they were. He was well aware of their meticulousness and care, both of which impressed onto him.

Murder. This was murder.

His parents had discussed their fear of Umbrella when they thought their son was fast asleep. He felt like he was finally starting to understand. They uncovered something big—something that made them a target.

Someone killed my parents. Someone took them from me.

Walter Berkes was a man that always needed to kill.

Without parents to object, there was nobody to stray him from his career path. Growing up in privilege, he knew how rich people thought. They were petty and vindictive— eager to harm those that vexed them, but too scared to do it themselves.

In his early days, Walter would fraternize with associates of his late father. He’d get them comfortable enough to divulge their hatred for a particular person.

“Someone should do something about that guy. Know what I mean?”

They usually said that in jest, but that didn’t matter. Walter pushed and prodded at that dark impulse until they weren’t joking so much anymore.

Killing was always the easy part. Clients made demands—they were all ‘ideas guys,’ after all. But, they seldom complained if Walter went off script.

The room for creativity made the job a lot easier. Rich people were sick bastards that wanted their targets to suffer. Sometimes, in these circles in particular, a lot of people got what was coming to them.

But, there were times in which he would tail someone, only to find that they didn’t deserve it. He would try and exercise a bit of compassion by making the death quick and painless.

The hardest part came after the kill. Those greedy enough to hoard wealth were cheap. Buyer’s remorse would set in, leading to medical miracles in which they would grow a conscience and a spine. It happened like clockwork.

The trick was always to remain calm. A lot of amateurs made the mistake of losing their cool, even threatening the client. That was a no-no. Nobody wanted to work with a loose cannon when death was the service.

Instead, it was another opportunity for a value proposition.

“For a reasonable fee, I will walk away, and you get to continue your life. You never have to think of me again… unless, of course, you’d like my services another time…”

Then the Umbrella Corporation called. Something about working in the medical field forced people into one of two camps. The first were genuine altruists that would never wish harm on another person as long as they lived. The second were some of the most bloodthirsty sociopaths on the planet. They hired assassins as often as the morning paper.

They also killed each other with the zeal of a monarch in a Shakespeare play. Like the Hydra, he would off one to find two more crawling around the office. Then one would hire him to kill the other.

Rinse. Repeat.

That was until a phone call made on a fateful Saturday morning.

The job was simple. Umbrella was cannibalizing itself in the wake of the Spencer Mansion explosion. There were a pair of loose ends. Accidents, but not freak accidents. None of the fancy shit. As clean as possible. Usual rate for target number one, double for target number two.

Walter agreed to the job immediately.

Walter hated sniping. It was a tough job that required a lot of patience. You had to plant yourself, making little movement as a heavy weapon dug into your shoulder. It was hard not to leave any trace when you were launching high-calibre rounds into a confined space.

There were many horror stories. A marksman gets impatient. Forensics find the entry point, the caliber of the round, and the direction. Hours later, police raid the sniper’s den, find a stray piece of DNA evidence, and the rest is history.

The rule was simple: if you couldn’t make the time, you couldn’t make the shot.

Nowadays, Walter thought of sniping like fishing. The act itself was not the point. That fish that circled the hook was nothing more than an alarm to bring you back to reality. In the meantime, it was an opportunity to reflect.

Walter waited for the target to reach his mark. In time, the target stepped out onto the balcony, staring over the concrete jungle. He leaned against a thin metal rail that stood above a waist-high glass barrier.

It couldn’t have been more perfect.

With a deep breath, Walter aimed and fired at the wall. A less-than-lethal round—steel encased in thick rubber—burst from the rifle. He watched as the shot rebounded off the brick and into the target’s hand, knocking the phone free.

Instinctively, the target’s arms shot out in reach of the falling device as his weight threw him forward. He collided with the safety railing, clawing the air as he toppled over the side.

SPLAT!

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeek!

That was Walter’s cue.

“Congratulations, you exceeded my expectations.”

He later reclined in the passenger seat of a black luxury sedan. The client sat in the driver’s seat, gloved fingertips spread out across the steering wheel.

“You said there were two targets,” Walter prodded.

“You’re right,” The client mused. “I did.”

Something about this felt off, but Walter couldn’t put his finger on it. In fact, he was struggling to put his finger on anything. Walter understood what his body wanted to do. It was instinct. He wanted to raise his hand.

But, his hand wouldn’t move. It couldn’t move.

Walter tried to speak, but his mouth wouldn’t open, either. His insides felt heavy, like they were filling with cement. He mentally noted what was working. His heart thudded in his chest. His lungs drew and expelled air. His eyes darted back and forth. His brain was screaming commands into the void.

“Don’t worry,” The client sighed, sensing his anguish. “It’s only a paralytic agent. I promise, it will wear off… ”

Walter watched in horror as his body refused to respond to his commands. The car’s engine purred as the client pulled out of the car park.

“We’ve got ourselves one hell of a long drive. In the meantime, you think long and hard about the life you’ve led, and the company you keep.”

Walter could feel his mobility return as he struggled against the straps of a moving trolley.

“You want to break my neck, don’t you?” The client asked.

“Too quick for what I have in mind.”

“All that time, Walter, and it looks like you didn’t do much thinking at all.”

Walter snorted as they entered a large radial space, flanked by gigantic metal doors. The client wheeled Walter into the center, placing a small attache case at his feet.

Then, the client left the room, and the bindings around his wrists snapped open. He attempted to take a step, only for his atrophied legs to give out. He pulled the attache case closer, finding a 9mm pistol with a pair of fresh mags.

“You’re gonna need it,” The client announced through the facility’s P.A. system.

Then, a hydraulic cacophony filled the room as one of the large doors pulled apart. A group trudged from the darkness, dragging themselves toward Walter. He noted their rotting flesh, tattered clothes, and the trail of blood and drool left in their wake.

No way.

Umbrella rumbled with stories of the living dead. Walter always dismissed it. Yet, he was staring them down as they got closer. He didn’t let them linger too long, though. He’d seen the movies. He knew what to do.

BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

True to form, these zombies went down with headshots.

“What have we learned, Walter?”

“Umbrella made zombies! That’s got nothin’ to do with me.”

There was a pause.

“You couldn’t be more wrong, Walter…”

Another thunderous quake shook the room as one of the heavy-duty doors forced itself open. The next assailants weren’t slow zombies. They were bounding Dobermanns, jaws gnashing at the air.

“… zombies are only the tip of the iceberg…”

The dogs went down. Walter reloaded the pistol with his first clip.

“… and, it has everything to do with you.”

Something skittered above. Whimpering, Walter looked up to see his face reflected in four pairs of eyes and clicking fangs.

He screamed as he fired at the creature, falling back onto the floor. He could feel his wrist sprain on impact. It wasn’t long before it was atop him.

It’s gonna hold me down so it can bite into me, liquefy my guts and suck my innards out like a—

“Walter, do you think I want you to die? I gave you a gun. Use it!”

He launched himself to his feet and fired eight shots, one for each eye.

As the spider turned onto its back, legs curling inward, Walter’s chest was heaving. In spite of the terrors launched at him, he felt great. He gave his wrist a flex, noting that the pain had all but vanished.

Gotta be the adrenaline.

It had been a while since he had to fight for his life. Assassinations were always so one-sided. They required discipline and restraint. You only had to fight a target if you messed up, and Walter never messed up.

The next room greeted Walter with darkness. He stepped inside, expecting another horrifying monster.

He flinched as a saggy, humanoid shape fell from the ceiling, stiffening with a SNAP. A spotlight bathed the figure in light, revealing an effigy with a noose around its neck. Its face made Walter’s stomach tighten.

“You recognize him, don’t you?”

How did he know? There was no way that he could know!

“It’s…” Walter croaked. “It’s my father.”

“Correct.”

Walter was never accused of his father’s murder. He was never even questioned. They never seemed to suspect it was a murder at all, only an abusive prick taking the easy way out.

“I understand, Walter. Believe me, I do. But it doesn’t end there, does it?”

CLICK!

Around Walter formed a ring of flat, glossy cardboard cutouts. Their eyes followed him wherever he looked.

They looked like the dead.

Walter knew this because he killed them.

Walter gave a sadistic chuckle. “You’re not gonna make me cry for them.”

He pictured the client fuming as he pointed at one of the cutouts, initiating a conversation.

“Hey, Paul! How’s the wife doing? Don’t worry. As far as I know, she took an oath of celibacy after you croaked.”

He pointed to another.

“Johannes! Looking good, buddy. If it’s any consolation, I miss you. Shame you didn’t know when to keep your mouth shut.”

Then another.

“Zach! Zachary. Zacha-freaking-riah. You sick son of a bitch. I hope they buried you thirty feet deep, locked you up in Hell, and threw away the key.”

Then, he turned his attention to another group of cutouts, only for the air to evacuate from his chest.

“What’s the matter, Walter? You seemed so confident a second ago.”

“I didn’t kill these people.”

“You sure?”

“There are children here, for Chrissake!”

A cone of light shot over his head, projecting on the wall. It was a montage of home videos belonging to various families, all joyous and loving.

Then, through a burst of static, the footage changed into sensory overload. There was news footage, legal documents, case files, CCTV footage. Men and women dying, their families torn apart. Towns suffocating in pollution, people chewed up and spat out into poverty.

“Even when you weren’t pulling the trigger, you were still responsible.”

Walter sank to his knees.

“Remember every Umbrella employee you killed for. You empowered them. You eliminated their obstacles. You rewarded them for every sick, twisted impulse. Any decisions they went on to make were the result of your actions, and the consequences are yours to bear.”

”Please,” Walter whimpered. “Please let me go. You’re right, okay? I messed up. I did awful things for awful people. I wanna make up for it. I wanna atone. I can make everything right if you’ll let me…”

After a deafening silence, the client’s righteous voice filled the room.

“Sorry Walter. But we’re not done yet.”

He was back where he started. The zombie corpses, the dogs, and the giant spider were gone, but the puddles of blood and pus stayed behind.

“Why am I back here?” Walter called out, “Are we about to wrap this up?”

No response. The lights dimmed. An overhead projector flickered to life, filling the floor with a portrait of a beaming man and woman.

“Your first big assignment. Without them, you’d never have gotten into Umbrella’s inner circle.”

Walter turned to his captor, only to meet the barrel of a gun. So, he pointed to the floor.

“Related to you?”

The client nodded.

“So, that’s what this is all about? Petty revenge? All that about how I need to repent, it was all bullshit?”

The client’s eyebrows raised as his lips pursed with amusement.

“You seem hellbent on learning nothing, Walter.”

Walter didn’t answer. What was he supposed to say?

The client continued. “Their names are James Trenton Darius, and Helen Black. They may have been my parents, but that’s not why you’re here.”

Walter’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. So, the client continued.

“When I found their lab, burned to a crisp, I flew into a rage. I was only a boy, after all. I couldn’t fathom the reasoning behind such a despicable, destructive act. I only wanted to respond in kind—to find the person responsible and burn their world down.”

“How did you know it was me?”

“Because, you were sloppy,” The client answered. “You left some DNA behind. So, I held onto it until I learned how to trace it back to you.”

This is insane.

“Why are you doing this, if not for revenge?”

“Because, it’s not enough that you killed them,” Victor snapped.

The image on the floor switched to scientific visuals that confused Walter.

“My parents dedicated so much to their work—every long day and sleepless night. You not only tore it from their hands, you handed it to true evil. The data you gave Umbrella led to one of the most horrific creations of the twenty-first century.”

The images became more aggressive, undulating and warping.

“No doubt, you’ve heard of the T-virus, right? I’m sure you thought it was a rumor. But I can tell you that it’s very real, and it began as the center-piece of what was to be a medical utopia. Now, it creates the same monsters you’ve encountered today, and more.”

“How was I supposed to know about this?”

“I don’t care. The fact of the matter is that your actions had consequences. You have too much blood on your hands for me to let you leave this building.”

Victor backed toward the exit, pulling the trigger as Walter rushed him. Before Walter could register what happened, he was alone to bleed behind the closed door.

THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!

But, not for long.

The footsteps echoed as the ground rattled. Something was coming.

And it was big.

Walter watched in horror as the steel doors shrieked and warped. Impressions of a humanoid mass formed with each hit.

“I’m sure you’ve heard about what happened at the Spencer Mansion. I’ll bet you thought nothing of it, did you, Walter?”

“You’ve made your point!”

“Umbrella tried to bury their secrets in that explosion. But they weren’t counting on their data getting out.”

A pair of hands punched through the barrier, folding the metal like paper. Each finger was the length of Walter’s torso, with claws the size of railroad spikes. It stepped into the room, revealing its nine-foot-tall body. It had semblances of a human shape—arms, legs, a torso, a head—but the proportions were all wrong.

Its muscles were too large, undercutting any capabilities it had for heightened agility. Its scaly skin, sharp jowls and alligator snout failed to distract from its beating heart. The organ hung from its chest by a complex web of arteries and ventricles.

“This creature was a pipe-dream—a combination of Umbrella’s two most dangerous weapons. It was a typical, impractical, idea-guy project. Idiots.”

Being the simple creature that it was, its first tactic was to swing its talons at Walter. He charged the destroyed door with as much speed as his tired arms and legs would allow. The creature, deducing his plan, bounded in his direction.

He tried not to hesitate, blocking thoughts of messing up the jump and degloving his leg on the jagged metal.

He was an inch from the opening. Then his chest exploded as he floated in space, arms and legs flinging behind him.

He hazarded a look down, where the monster’s claws were now protruding. He hacked up a searing mix of the blood and phlegm that was now pooling in his punctured lungs.

The creature held him to its face, their eyes meeting. It opened its mouth and fastened its jaws around the bottom half of his face.

Oh God.

It pulled back, shattering his jaw, snapping the sinew and wrenching the muscle free from his head. One of his eyes still worked, swiveling in its socket. The other dangled from its exposed optic nerve, touching his flapping tongue.

It missed my brain oh God it missed my brain please kill me please end it I can’t take any more—

The creature, satisfied with its snack, tossed Walter across the room. For a millisecond, he felt his neck buckle under the weight of the oncoming wall.

Then, nothing.

Then, everything.

Walter awoke, screaming, cold, head pounding from the lack of sleep, or from too much sleep. He didn’t know.

His hands shot up to his fully-formed torso, then to his mouth, where a perfect set of teeth and lips had formed. Everything was intact. He remembered his death with vivid detail, yet it was though none of it happened.

“Walter!” Victor’s voice boomed over the intercom. “Welcome back to the world of the living!”

“What have you done to me?” Walter sobbed as he sank to the floor.

A new voice rang through the intercom—more subdued and amiable.

“This is Dr. James Trenton Darius, employee of the Umbrella Corporation. The time is… Oh, who cares? We’ve done it. I mean it. I’m not talking about some kind of minor trial success, or a test that shows signs of promise. I mean we’ve actually done it. The tissue repairing synthesis—it… it works!”

This was the man I burned to death.

“Subjects are recovering from traumatic injuries, severe tissue degeneration, even terminal disease. We found these poor rodents on the street, clinging to life, and we saved every single one of them, all with this.”

He wanted to save the world. He was going to save the world, and I thanked him for it by killing him and destroying his work.

“Human trials are a way off. Still, I’m hoping that we can appeal to Spencer’s human side. People like to say he doesn’t have one. But, we could lift up so many displaced people. We could revolutionize healthcare in ways that shouldn’t be possible for millennia! This will remind Spencer of why he started the Umbrella Corporation in the first place—”

Then, the recording cut out, presumably as Darius’ life did on that fateful day.

“Victor,” Walter gasped. “I’m sorry.”

At first, there was no response. Then, Victor’s voice returned.

“Do you want to know why I injected you with the tissue repairing synthesis? It wasn’t for the dramatic irony. It was because it was the only sample I could rescue from the lab. I spent the rest of my life working to make more. You know what I discovered?”

Victor’s cool, controlled demeanor started to fade. This was a man overcome with rage.

“We will never see science like this again. Not now, not ever. Not even in a million years. Umbrella took enough data to make bioweapons and destroyed the rest. I sought other companies. I learned that everybody had the resources, but nobody had the expertise nor the morals of my parents. Any chance that we had to heal the world died in that fire, and that rests on you!”

Finally, Victor was no longer angry, only defeated.

“So no, Walter. I don’t feel like your punishment has been adequate. I don’t think it ever will be. That’s why you’re now a medical miracle. Your body will continue to heal itself through any punishment you put it through.”

Not like this, Walter thought.

“You’ll age. You’ll even die. But, until then, you can stay here and live with what you’ve done. Nobody knows you’re here. Nobody will ever find you.”

Please.

“If you’re lucky, I’ll let you know when I bring Umbrella down. It might take my entire life, but I’m prepared to see it through to the end.”