Meryl

[Resident Evil 2]

RACCOON CITY, OUTSKIRTS – HIGHWAY APPROACH
29.09.1998, TUESDAY, 23:57

HEALTH: 100/100 | INFECTION: 0/100 | DISGUST: 100/100
INVENTORY: M9 Handgun (12 rounds), Combat Knife, Radio/Codec (spotty signal), Spare Magazine (x1), Trauma Kit (half empty)
EQUIPPED: Black sports-bra crop top, black bikini thong, green utility belt (with pouches + holster), olive-green tactical chaps, black military boots, black fingerless gloves, M9 Handgun
OBJECTIVE: Infiltrate Raccoon City, locate Umbrella laboratory, recover evidence of bio-weapon research

The crash still rang in her ears, a metallic shriek cut short by fire and earth. When Meryl came to, her first sensation wasn’t pain, but pressure—hands clawing at her chest rig, a face too close, eyes jaundiced, mouth gnashing. The weight of a body. She reacted by instinct: twist, shove, draw steel. The combat knife punched up under the jaw, through soft palate, the thing shuddering as hot arterial spray doused her already ruined vest. Its teeth clattered against her collarbone even as it went slack. She shoved it aside and rose to one knee—only to see the rest of her team writhing beneath a feeding frenzy.

Her pulse slowed into the rhythm of training. Sights raised, trigger breaking clean. Muzzle flash lit the woods in staccato bursts. By the time the magazine clicked empty, the clearing was nothing but twitching shadows and smoke. The stench of blood was everywhere. Her hands shook, just once, before she reloaded with a metallic snap. She exhaled through her teeth. This wasn’t random. It couldn’t be. Umbrella had downed their transport, and then sent in its… experiments… to make sure nothing survived.

The Codec on her belt vibrated, Ingrid Hunnigan’s voice breaking through in static-laced fragments. “—ryl, do you copy?—situation?”

Meryl: “Team’s gone. Transport’s wrecked. Contact with Umbrella confirmed. They knew we were coming.”

Hunnigan: “—extract—Raccoon City—lab beneath—careful—”

Meryl: “…Signal’s trash. I’ll get closer. Don’t lose me.”

The channel dissolved into static. She pulled the earpiece free, biting down on a curse. Her vest was shredded beyond repair, straps dangling in tatters, but she salvaged what she could: belt, sidearm, gloves. The rest she stripped away, leaving only what was functional, what let her move light and fast. She cinched her belt, checked the holster, adjusted the thigh straps on her chaps, then set her jaw. She wasn’t going to die in the woods like carrion. If Umbrella wanted her erased, they’d have to work harder.

The treeline broke ahead, giving way to the highway that snaked into the valley. The first glow of Raccoon City shimmered in the distance, amber against a black horizon. As she crested the slope, the wind carried the sound—screams, car horns, gunfire, sirens—and then the sight of it all: streets burning, civilians running, something unnatural dragging itself across the crosswalk as police cruisers swerved and collided. A city in collapse.

She descended the slope into the chaos of Raccoon City.

[Resident Evil 0]

ARKLAY MOUNTAINS, ECLIPTIC EXPRESS TRAIN, DINNING CAR
23.07.1998, THURSDAY, 21:42

HEALTH: 100/100 | INFECTION: 0/100 | DISGUST: 100/100
INVENTORY: M9 Handgun (12 rounds), Combat Knife, Radio/Codec (spotty signal), Spare Magazine (x1), Trauma Kit (half empty)
EQUIPPED: Black sports-bra crop top, black bikini thong, green utility belt (with pouches + holster), olive-green tactical chaps, black military boots, black fingerless gloves, M9 Handgun
OBJECTIVE: Investigate Umbrella’s stalled train and gather intelligence on bio-weapon activity in the region

The orders had been clear: a corporate-owned passenger train, the Ecliptic Express, had gone dark in the Arklay Mountains. At the same time, Raccoon City police were filing reports of animal-like attacks in the surrounding forests, bodies torn open in ways no ordinary predator could manage. Washington wanted eyes on the situation, and Roy Campbell vouched for his niece’s squad to take the job. Simple recon, there had been some rumblings that Umbrella was possibly developing a rabies-based bio-weapon, that these killings were related, and the private track a means of transport. A possibility that warranted a closer look.

Her boots sank into wet earth as she moved along the treeline, Codec pressed close to her ear. The squad’s voices crackled in her head, their reports fragmented by static but steady enough. “South sector clear.” “No movement near the tracks.” “Still no sign of the train crew.” Meryl scanned the forest floor, the faint shimmer of glass catching her eye, the overturned police SUV the locals had reported missing. Its frame was bent, windows spiderwebbed, the smell of oil sharp in the cold air. Something had run it off the road.

Then came the noise, a low scrape against the asphalt, followed by the shuffle of boots that weren’t standing. She swung her light. Figures stirred around the SUV. Police uniforms. Or what was left of them. Their faces were ashen, eyes glassy, limbs moving stiff and wrong. One dragged itself forward with broken legs, another pushed upright from the shattered windshield, skin hanging in strips. Meryl raised her weapon, breath catching in her throat.

Meryl: “I’ve got bodies at the crash—wait, they’re moving. How the hell—” Squadmate: “Contact! They’re everywhere!—”

The line erupted with gunfire and screams, her earpiece filling with chaos before cutting back to static. She barely had time to react before the first one lunged, teeth snapping at her vest. Another grabbed at her legs, dragging her down, fingers clawing through the fabric of her chaps. She hit the dirt hard, pistol bucking in her hands, each shot deafening in the close dark. One head split, another staggered, but two more were crawling up her legs, jaws gnashing. She kicked free, boot cracking teeth, and buried her knife in a third’s temple. The fourth didn’t stop until she emptied the last three rounds of her magazine into its chest and skull.

Silence settled like a held breath, broken only by the wet scrape of fabric and the slow hiss of cooling metal. Meryl shoved herself upright and fumbled for the codec, fingers still sticky where the things had bitten through her straps. She pressed the transmit and called for the squad, low, sharp, the way you call for someone in the dark who might answer with a laugh. Static filled her ear, then a distant, broken voice: “—Meryl… help—” A second later it tore into a howl, and then nothing but the thin, hollow whisper of dead air. She tried again, repeating names, calling positions, listening for the cadence of a familiar breath. All she got back was the sound of the forest swallowing itself. That single fragment of voice was confirmation enough.

There was no time to mourn. Her kit was a ruin—vest straps shredded, pouches ripped open, most of the heavier gear either flattened under the SUV or sloughed off in the fight. She scavenged with hands that still trembled: a half-used medkit, two spare mags tucked in a cracked pouch, the harness and buckles from the ruined vest. The rest she turned into what she needed.

When she crested the last rise the train sat in the clearing like something half-dreamt: long, metal, absurdly ordinary. The trees were full of small sounds, things moving just out of sight, and the doorways gaped like mouths. Meryl shouldered what she had and moved toward the steps. She wanted the walls of the car, the narrower angles; she wanted to fight where she could see every approach. Her breath sent out quick white puffs as she climbed. She ducked into the dining car, the door thudding shut behind her, and let the night fold back into the worn comforts of steel and shadow.

[Resident Evil 1]

ARKLAY MOUNTAINS, SPENCER MANSION – MAIN HALL
24.07.1998, FRIDAY, 00:13

HEALTH: 100/100 | INFECTION: 0/100 | DISGUST: 100/100
INVENTORY: M9 Handgun (12 rounds), Combat Knife, Radio/Codec (spotty signal), Spare Magazine (x1), Trauma Kit (half empty)
EQUIPPED: Black sports-bra crop top, black bikini thong, green utility belt (with pouches + holster), olive-green tactical chaps, black military boots, black fingerless gloves, M9 Handgun
OBJECTIVE: Infiltrate Spencer Mansion, locate hidden Umbrella laboratory, recover evidence of bio-weapon research

Umbrella had buried its secrets well. Reports of bioweapon research had been circling for months, but Washington finally pinned down the source: a hidden lab beneath the Spencer estate. Meryl’s squad was dropped in the forest to move on foot, gather evidence, and confirm what everyone already suspected. Simple. Clean. It lasted all of five minutes.

The dogs came without warning, three of them tearing out of the trees, black shapes slamming into the squad with snapping jaws, fast and vicious. One soldier went down screaming, blood spraying through the rotor wash as the chopper lifted away. Gunfire cracked through the clearing but these attack dogs didn’t fall, they barely even slowed slowed. Their eyes caught the light with a sick red shine as they lunged again.

Meryl hit the ground hard, teeth tearing into her vest and dragging her through the mud. She kicked, twisted, fired at near point-blank, the shot ripping through its skull before the weight rolled off her. Another was tearing at her frantically kicking legs before it clamped onto a thigh pouch, jaws tearing feverishly at the fabric until she drove her knife up under its jaw. Warm spray across her hands, her breath ragged and panicked. She didn’t wait to check if it was dead.

She regained her footing but more of her team where going down as more dark killing machines sprinted at them through the trees. A hasty command to retreat was given, so she ran, limping, the Codec filled with screams and static until it cut out altogether.

The mansion rose out of the dark like something abandoned by time. She slammed through the doors and braced them shut, the sound of claws and snapping teeth still battering against the other side. Silence came slow, her own heartbeat filling the hall louder than any noise outside. Her gear was ruined, vest straps hanging in ribbons, trousers ripped to the knees. She stripped off what was useless, cinched her belt tighter, reloaded. The chaps were fashioned quick from what was left of her pants, buckled into place to cover torn skin, her kit rebuilt into something lighter, survivable. Not standard issue, but better than being dragged down again.

She stood alone in the vast marble hall, weapon raised, the rain hammering against the tall windows. The Codec was dead silent. No one was calling back.