I sprint, already darting through the backyards of one- and two-story buildings. How fortunate that in America these plots lie so close to one another and that everyone, even the most humble house, has its own small yard. No, maybe it's different in my world, but here it's exactly like that, and I can't help but be pleased about it.
I didn't bother trying to knock down any walls—first, their thickness made me doubt I could break through, and second, the noise would be far too great, which is unnecessary in my case. I took the easier route: listening to my newly acquired senses, and if I didn't sense anyone nearby (more precisely, from where I can be seen—because on both sides of the buildings a dense line of cars and fleeing citizens stretched), I simply jumped over the fence and landed in the next yard.
The main thing in this business is not to overdo it. The first time I jumped, I flew higher than my own height. It's a good thing only a few onlookers noticed, two of whom—judging by their height—were children. Thermal vision can see through obstacles. The police patrols attempting to wrangle this panicking crowd into something resembling organized movement were far enough away and didn't notice my idiotic leap at all. Having learned from those jumps to at least vaguely gauge my strength, I moved on, looking around with care. I didn't need any more excesses like in the case of the first jump.
Hunger hadn't returned yet, but the fear of it—and the memories of losing control twice—drove me forward. Yes, I really need to know who I am and what is happening to me, and only after I learn that can I decide what to do next. After all, who knows—maybe, like some of the infected (Birkin, for example), I'll evolve in several stages? And if at first they can still be called reasonable, then later there is no trace of intelligence left. Yes, I'm afraid. Afraid of going mad, of degenerating into another mindless but powerful creature. Some idealists might be outraged at this approach, but when you're trembling, waiting for the hunger to return, and you know you have no control over yourself, in such moments , somehow, humanity and its salvation are not a priority. Yes, my own skin is closer to my body. Once I figure out what they've turned me into, then I'll be able to play both the rescuer—or, conversely, the villain. And for now, it's better to be selfish but alive… said the living dead man. Well, let's not dwell on sad things.
I jump over another fence and freeze, not immediately understanding what exactly bothers me. After a moment, I notice two things. First, with my red-lit vision, I can see the end of the long line of cars ahead—another two hundred meters or so—and beyond that begin the empty suburbs. Raccoon City itself isn't yet visible, so perhaps this is a distant suburb or even a small town along the way.
The second thing is that, lost in thought, I only now register that someone is inside the house whose yard I've landed in. More precisely, I see three figures moving hurriedly inside the house. Stragglers or looters. Yes, the latter can make quite a fortune at a time like this. It's a pity I can only make out red silhouettes through the wall. If I could see them with normal vision, I could say for sure who was bustling about in there.
But then something unexpected—though, in a way, expected—happens. When one of the figures approaches the wall separating us, I feel the thirst for blood rising again. Before my eyes, as vividly as if it were real, I see myself breaking through the wall with a single swing of my hand, grabbing the victim, tearing her out, feeding on her blood—maybe even her flesh. I come to my senses already standing at the wall with my arm raised, fingers curled like a clawed paw.
Although… why "like"? It was a clawed paw. No—that's not quite right. My hand hadn't changed much, but my nails had grown three or four centimeters longer, sharpened at the tips, and turned black like an animal's, hinting that they were no longer entirely nails.
Damn it! No, this won't do—I won't eat people! That's not why I'm looking for a way to slow or reverse this reaction, and it's not why I'm heading for the Hive—the laboratory under Raccoon City—to break down at the initial stage and start devouring humans! "You're not human, so why not? After all, it's not cannibalism—we're different species," a frightening thought suddenly whispers in my mind.
No. I don't want this! I'm not a monster!
On shaky legs, I back away from the wall, trying to suppress the bloodlust. My body obeys sluggishly, as if unwilling to follow my mind's commands, and a quiet, barely audible growl escapes my throat. No, I said! I'm stronger than these damn instincts they implanted in me in the laboratories of those umbrella-worshiping fetishists!
My body arches, and I can no longer stand—I fall to my knees, my growl turning into a hiss. Even so, I continue crawling on all fours, backing away (or rather, the lower half of me backs away) farther and farther from the unsuspecting man. That's it! As soon as I can control this, I'll go back to that damn lab and kill them all! Not for food—no. To pay those bastards back for what they did to me! I hate them!
And then, beneath this surge of anger, something inside me seems to switch—at least, I hope it didn't break. I see again a terrible image: my uncontrollable body unbending and suddenly lunging forward from a crouched position, straight at the wall. And now it's far more terrifying than when I losing control of that zombie dog—because there's a living person behind the wall!
No. Damn it, no, I don't want this! But no matter what I try, my body refuses to listen. My arms—bent at the elbows and held level with my head—break through the wall, grasping the person standing with his back to me around the waist. From the outside, it might look like I'm hugging him. But my grip is brutal—I know that very well. And the wall, pierced by my torso as I burst through it, certainly doesn't add to the friendly atmosphere.