Chapter 1: Infection

It was around 3:00 that afternoon when Claire started feeling ill. It was nothing really, just a sour stomach, but it seemed to sap every ounce of her strength. She doggedly kept working, however, clearing dishes and waiting for her shift to be over. Being a waitress at a local restaurant wasn't exactly the most glamorous job in the world, but it was someplace where she could at least pretend that nothing horrific had ever happened in her life. And since Chris vehemently insisted that she continue with her education, she used the money to pay for her tuition as a part-time student at the local community college. Chris and Jill worked hard enough as it was without the extra baggage.

After wiping down the table and refilling the dish of coffee creamer, Claire took the tub of dirty dishes into the kitchen. She was stacking them in the large dishwasher when a surge of nausea forced her to stop and bend over the sink, wondering if she was going to vomit. The last thing she needed right now was to come down with the flu. Chris would worry and stay home from work, and she didn't want that. Taking a deep breath, she turned on the tap and splashed some cold water on her face.

"Hey, Claire? You okay?"

Claire lifted her head to see Todd walking towards her. Todd was a skinny guy just a year older than her, with short, liberally gelled black hair that he wore spiked. Right now he was looking at her in concern. Claire nodded at him. "I'm okay. Just a little upset stomach," she said, straightening up.

"What, you getting sick?"

"Crap, I hope not."

Todd set a tub of dirty dishes on the counter, eyeing her critically. "Well, you're either coming down with some kind of grunge or you seriously need some sun. You look like a vampire," he commented, clearly thinking this was cool. "Let me some Pepto Bismol from the men's. Sit down and take a rest."

"My shift isn't over, you know."

"So what? Jeannie needs the exercise, the toad."

Todd left the kitchen and Claire sank onto a nearby stool, rubbing her queasy stomach. Not for the first time, Claire wondered if Todd's gallant attitude stemmed from a crush. He was an okay sort of guy to work with, but Claire suspected that he was exactly the kind of boyfriend her overprotective brother would chase off the porch with his 9mm. Not that she was interested in Todd. The whole Goth thing wasn't really her style. Still, she was grateful when Todd returned with a cup of full of pink liquid. The bottle was in his other hand, ready to dispense another dose if Claire thought she needed it. Between his fingers, she could see the Maltese cross of the Umbrella Corporation stamped on the ingredient label.

Claire forced herself to swallow the medicine, disgusted by the carefree, innocent taste of bubblegum. After suffering through both Raccoon City and Rockfort Island, Claire hated the corporation with a passion, a hatred only fueled by the fact that they were still around. In the beginning, she and Chris had tried to fight back, forming anti-Umbrella groups and handing out pamphlets detailing their nefarious practices. And for a while it seemed to work. Umbrella's stock had fallen sharply. People demanded answers. And then Ozwell E. Spencer, the founder of the mega-corporation, had turned up dead in his estate. Someone behind the scenes gathered up all the strings, released a few incriminating documents, and placed the blame squarely on the old man's shoulders before pledging Umbrella's nearly unlimited resources to help clean up the mess.

And that someone was Albert Wesker.

Claire would never forget the look on her brother's face when the news announced that Wesker had assumed the position of Umbrella's chairman, a position previously filled by Spencer. In trying to help them cope, Claire had heard dozens of hellish stories from Chris and Jill. Albert Wesker had been the captain of their S.T.A.R.S. unit… and a high-ranking official inside Umbrella, a murderous traitor who'd led the entire S.T.A.R.S. Alpha team to their deaths, but with every news anchor praising Wesker's "bravery" and "compassion", Chris' efforts against the man had been in vain. Without any solid evidence, his ideas joined the likes of Roswell and Bigfoot in just a few short months and the ex-members of S.T.A.R.S. had been forced to move on. Rebecca left to start a new life with Billy, a gentle ex-Marine she'd met during that ill-fated night at the Arklay Mansion, and Leon had gone chasing a police job in Washington DC. Chris, Claire and Jill had moved to a backwater suburb in Utah, where they were currently trying to make the best of things.

And Claire wasn't helping by sitting in the kitchen when she was supposed to be waiting tables. Thanking Todd for the medicine, Claire fixed her ponytail and got back to work. Her stomach did feel marginally better, which was a plus, but she couldn't say she was sorry when her shift was finally up. Punching her timecard, Claire gathered up her leather jacket and went around back. Outside, it was a warm summer evening. A sudden breeze blew dead leaves and glittering cellophane wrappers across the parking lot and the slanting orange sunlight felt good on Claire's cheeks. Maybe Todd was right. She needed to get some tanning oil and sun herself in the front yard for an hour or two.

Walking over to her motorcycle, Claire untied her helmet from the handlebars. The secondhand purple Harley was cheaper than a car and consumed less gas. Besides, Claire found that riding helped her unwind and deal with the stress – and the occasional nightmare. She tried to be strong so not to worry her brother, but it was tough sometimes. She told herself that Chris had his own share of hurts, both physical and mental. Claire had heard the stories. Putting her helmet on, Claire straddled her motorcycle and started the engine, swinging it out onto the freeway. Still feeling ill, she would've liked nothing better than to go straight home and crawl into bed, but Chris would undoubtedly worry. So Claire stopped by Fred's Chinese and picked up dinner first, hoping that Jill hadn't already done the same.

Her ride home was uneventful. Dusk was falling just as she pulled into the driveway of the small house she shared with Chris and Jill. Chris' dark green Subaru Outback was already parked out front. Grasping the bag of Chinese takeout, Claire parked her motorcycle and went in the house. She was greeted by the sound of the TV and the smell of frying chicken.

"Hey, Claire. How was your day?" said Jill as she came into the kitchen. The brunette had flour on her jeans. She'd obviously breaded the chicken herself. Claire gave the older woman a hug and put the Chinese in the fridge, trying not to feel irritable. "Oh, alright. Just a day. I picked this up on my way home, but it looks like dinner's already on."

"Aw, no big deal. We can eat it tomorrow," said Jill, picking up a pair of barbeque tongs and going over to tend the chicken. Chris came out of the living room and gathered his sister up in a crushing bear hug. Ever since they'd moved, he'd been working out almost obsessively and still didn't realize how strong he'd become. Claire didn't mind, though. She hugged him back with a smile.

"You feeling okay, Claire-bear? You look a little off," said Chris.

Crap. Damnation unto older brothers. "I'm not feeling well," Claire reluctantly admitted. "My stomach's been a little queasy."

Chris peered at her worriedly. "Maybe you should lie down before dinner," he suggested.

"Yeah, I'd like to, but I really need a shower. I'll be fine after I eat something." Claire excused herself from the kitchen and went upstairs to the bathroom. She turned the hot water on and let it run while she undressed, pausing to examine a funny bruise-colored mark on her side. Claire frowned and pressed it with a finger. It hurt, but not bad enough to worry about. She wondered how she'd gotten it and had to conclude that she'd bumped into the countertop, although she couldn't remember when. Claire showered quickly, taking a little time at the end to pamper herself with some lotion, and went back downstairs just as Jill was setting the table.

Grabbing a few mugs from the cupboard, Claire poured everybody some milk and sat down to eat. In trying to make their life here more comfortable, Jill had outdone herself with a real home-cooked meal. There was fried chicken and buttered noodles with garlic, and a side of steamed broccoli. Chris eagerly pulled up a chair. "Looks good, Jill. When did you learn to cook?"

"Since I got tired of McDonald's," said Jill, obviously proud of herself. Claire had to admit that dinner was delicious and no longer felt slighted over bringing home takeout. Afterwards, she helped clear the table and do the dishes before heading upstairs to bed, feeling unusually exhausted. Still, dinner had felt special somehow and both Chris and Jill had been in a good mood. It was all she could hope for, and Claire fell asleep thinking that maybe the day hadn't been so bad after all.

It became clear the next morning, however, that Claire was seriously ill. She spent most of the morning hunched over in the bathroom, throwing up what was left of last night's dinner. Her stomach and head were on fire, and there were strange lancing pains in her side. When she failed to appear for breakfast, Chris came upstairs to investigate. She tried to keep him out of the bathroom, not wanting him to see, but her excuses were cut short but another hard bout of vomiting. Chris barged his way in immediately, his eyes wide.

"Claire! Holy crap, are you alright? How long have you been in here?" He dropped down on his knees beside the toilet and grasped Claire's shoulders, wrinkling his nose at the sick floating in the pot. Claire weakly tried to push him back. "I'm… I'm okay, Chris. Stomach bug, remember?" she rasped.

"Yeah, a very large, very nasty stomach bug," said Chris, picking her up and carrying her back to her room. Claire squirmed in embarrassment as he tucked her in and went back down the hall for a damp washcloth. She could hear him calling down the stairs for Jill. "Chris, don't be an moron," she protested when he returned. "You're going to be late for work."

"So?" he demanded, sitting on her bed.

"So I'll be okay. I won't go to work today and I'll stay in bed, I promise."

"Uh-huh, and I'm going to bring the TV up for you to watch… or if you want to go back to sleep it can wait till later." Chris put a damp washcloth over her forehead and handed her a glass of water. It was slightly warm. She suspected it'd come from the bathroom. "A day's wages isn't worth more than my baby sister."

Claire opened her mouth to protest, but then had to lean over the side of the bed. Eyes wide, Chris hastily looked around for something to catch the puke in. Grabbing Claire's wastebasket from her desk, he evicted the trash and placed it under her just in time. After what seemed like forever, Claire laid back with a groan. She couldn't tell who was more relived, her or her brother. Jill came into the room with a spatula in one hand. "Geez, Claire, are you okay?" she asked, looking at the wastebasket.

Claire dragged her blankets up. "Ugh… tell my brother to go to work and stop worrying."

"I would, but I'm worried, too. How long have you been feeling sick?"

"I don't know… A day."

Jill went back downstairs to fetch a proper glass of water – with ice – and Chris was left to nervously smooth his sister's blankets. "I'm not dying, you know," Claire mumbled, keeping her eyes shut to combat her spinning head. "People get sick all the time. It's called life."

"Yeah, I know. It just… it just makes me feel like I can't do anything and I hate it," said Chris.

Claire reached out and gave her brother's hand a squeeze. "You worry too much."

"Think so? Maybe you just don't worry enough."

Claire shrugged and mumbled her thanks when Chris got up to shut the curtains, darkening the room for her. Jill came back with a glass of water and ordered her to sip it slowly. Claire did so gratefully, then lay back down and adjusted the washcloth so it covered her eyes, too. "You really shouldn't hang around me," she mumbled to Chris. "You'll get sick, too."

"Not me. I never get sick."

"Huh. Ever hear of the gloat gods?"

Claire felt rather than saw Chris smile. After making Claire promise to call if she needed anything, Chris went downstairs, but Claire knew that he never did go to work since she could hear the TV. Groaning, she curled up on herself, wishing she'd remembered to ask for an Advil. It felt like there was a fire in her stomach, one that ate at her insides and coiled around her spine. There was a sharp, funny pain in her right arm, too. Not five minutes later, Claire had to sit up and vomit again, but nothing much was forthcoming. Her stomach was running on empty. She took a small sip of water to wash the acid out of her mouth and groaned softly into her pillow.

The day passed with agonizing slowness. Claire tried to be as quiet as she could, but eventually Chris came back upstairs and saw her doubled over on herself, trying not to cry out against the growing pain. Claire could plainly see his panic and she felt horrible for it, but she didn't have the energy to do anything but groan. She was sweating, her body radiating a deep, sick heat and the sheets stuck to her like wet tissues. Chris clumsily picked her up and tried to get a fresh blanket under her.

Then the dreams began.

They were strange and hellish, and so real Claire didn't even realize she was dreaming a lot of the time. Flashes of Raccoon City filled her head. Sometimes she fled through a never-ending hallway, always running but never getting away. Sometimes she ran out of bullets and was killed by a horde of undead, which always woke her with a jolt, tears threatening to spill from her eyes. Chris did the best he could, holding her and telling her that it was just a bad dream, but she would slip under again and dream of ants and horrid parasites. Growing more frightened by the second, Chris called Jill sometime around 1:00 o'clock that afternoon and she left work early.

"Jill, maybe we should take her to the hospital," said Chris, his voice taut.

"You know, I think you're right. She looks really bad," Jill replied, looking ill herself. Chris started to bundle Claire in a blanket, but Jill stopped him, her heart leaping into her throat. "Wait! What the hell is that?"

Claire's arm had slipped out from under the blankets. A grayish-green discoloration encrusted her arm from elbow to wrist, and her veins stuck out like ugly tubes. A lot of the capillaries looked like they'd broken. Chris felt sick and cold and terrified all at once. Jill numbly pointed to Claire's waist and further inspection revealed that the same spreading blemish was on her side.

"My god, Chris, what is it?"

"I… I don't know." Something was pulling Chris back to Rockfort Island, back to Umbrella. He remembered Alexia coming down the stairs towards him, her clothes ripping and bursting into flame. Her body had looked just like what Claire's was becoming. Chris' hand flew to his stomach and he pushed past Jill, stumbling into the bathroom to throw up. This couldn't be happening. It just couldn't be happening! Why now? Why his baby sister?

"Chris?" Jill had followed him into the bathroom looking pale and frightened.

"She's infected," Chris croaked, bending over the sink. "I… I've seen something like that before on Rockfort Island. She… I…" Roaring helplessly, Chris angrily knocked a bunch of toiletries off a nearby shelf. They hit the ground and scattered everywhere. "Those sons-a-bitches," he growled. "Those god damned SONS-A-BITCHES!"

Night fell. Between them, Chris and Jill had decided that taking Claire to the hospital was no longer a viable option, since all the local hospitals were owned by Umbrella. Claire would go straight from the outpatient center to a test tube in some underground facility, of that they were certain. With their problems compounding and Claire's situation getting worse, Chris didn't know what to do. He'd started smoking again and the bottom of his Pepsi glass was soon filled with cigarette butts. Jill couldn't bring herself to scold him. She made a can of soup and tried to get Chris to eat, but all he did was swirl the broth, never taking his eyes off Claire. It wasn't long afterward that she starting screaming.

Claire had been dreaming again. She'd been back in Raccoon City, helpless to fight as one of the undead fisted his hand in her ponytail. His eyes burned like live coals, his teeth had grown pointed, and blood dripped from his mouth to land on her face. As he dipped his head to gnaw at her throat Claire awoke screaming and fighting the blankets. She was aware of Chris trying to hold her, but her vision was blurry and filled with monochrome reds. The room seemed to pitch and heave. "B… behind you!" she gasped, pushing against Chris.

Chris hastily looked back over one shoulder, but there was nothing there. Just the bookcase. "Claire, you're dreaming! There's nothing there!" he said, trying desperately to explain.

"Yes, there is! Why can't you see him?" Claire was so sure there was a zombie smirking down at her over Chris' shoulder. Then, looking up at her brother, she realized that blood was dripping from his mouth, too. Panicking, Claire shoved him hard in the chest, her eyes wild and darting, but Chris held her to his chest until her panic finally subsided. Sobbing raggedly, she fell back into unconsciousness. Unshed tears glistened in Chris' eyes as he stroked his sister's tangled red hair and Jill had to leave the room. Downstairs in the kitchen, the watery grey light of dawn was beginning to appear on the horizon, making the gauzy white drapes take on a faint glow.

Jill felt exhausted and utterly helpless. What were they going to do? She'd seen what had happened to people in Raccoon City when they lost their minds to the T-Virus. At that point, the most merciful thing anyone could do for them was put a bullet in their head. The thought made Jill want to cry. How on earth had Claire gotten infected? It was been nearly a year since Rockfort Island, and Claire had sworn up and down that she'd never been bitten. Sitting at the counter, Jill buried her face in her arms with a moan. It was hard not to cry, but Chris was the one really suffering here and if he hadn't broken down yet then she had no right to. Claire was dying. Slowly maybe, but she was dying. Jill told herself to be strong, but as she rolled her head up, her eyes red, the kitchen phone caught her eye. There was a pad of numbers beside it, but there was no one to call, no one who could possibly help. No one except…

The thought of turning to Wesker for help sickened Jill. He was probably behind the whole sordid affair! But a minute later, Jill found herself holding the phone. The plastic receiver felt like a hundred pounds and threatened to slip from her sweaty hands. If she called Wesker he would come and take Claire away, there was no question about that. But Wesker knew these viruses, how they spread, how they worked, how they could be killed. Jill had a feeling he would keep Claire alive, if only to preserve himself a specimen. She turned the phone around and around in her hands, her stomach knotting up. Wesker had betrayed them… Wesker had worked for Umbrella… Wesker was Umbrella! And even if she did call, who's to say he wouldn't just laugh at her and hang up?

Jill swallowed a hard lump in her throat. Wesker had always kept his word back at the S.T.A.R.S. – provided you were lucky enough to actually receive a promise from him – but Jill knew it'd all been an act. She couldn't trust him to have any honor, but she could trust him to react to a potential biohazard. He would do anything to protect his precious company. But would that mean killing Claire? Jill clenched the phone in shaking hands. It didn't really matter, did it? Claire was going to die anyway if something wasn't done.

Jill reached for the phonebook and shakily dialed Umbrella's main number. Holding the phone to her ear, hearing the line ring loudly in the stillness, Jill almost lost her nerve. But she clung on, keeping an eye on the stairs. Chris would never let her go through with this.

"You've reached the Umbrella Corporation. Our Business is Life Itself. To reach the main desk, press 1. For a consultation…"

Jill pressed 1 without waiting for the rest. The phone rang again, and then someone picked up the line. "Umbrella Corporation. This is Sheila. How may I help you?" The woman's voice was warm and smoky, rich with a Southern accent.

"Hello, I… I was wondering if you could…" Jill stuttered, unable to say it.

"Ma'am? Is there something wrong? Do you need help?" Sheila sounded genuinely concerned.

Yes! Yes, we need help! Jill thought, fighting the urge to hang up the phone. She forced herself to think of Claire. "…I need to get into contact with ch… chairman Albert Wesker," she blurted, before she lost her nerve. "It's an emergency."

Sheila seemed taken aback. "Is he expecting your call?"

"No, but-"

"Then I'm afraid I'm going to have to take a message, ma'am," said Sheila. She said it with the long-suffering tone of someone who put up with kind of thing a lot. "I'm afraid chairman Wesker only takes calls he's expecting or from people he knows personally."

"He does know me!" Jill cried, clinging to the phone. "I'm begging you… just tell him it's Jill Valentine and I really need to talk to him. Please!" She had to hope that the mention of her name would be enough to get Wesker's attention.

"Alright, ma'am. Calm down," said Sheila. "I'm going to put you on hold and see what I can do."

Jill felt a sense of impending doom. She had the horrible feeling that the receptionist was just going to leave her to rot until she lost interest and hung up. All around her the kitchen was filling with cold gray light. Outside, the birds were beginning to wake up and sing, but Jill felt completely and utterly alone. She clung to the phone, listening to the surreal elevator music. A long moment passed, then another. Jill was on the brink of loosing hope just as the line clicked and a new voice filled her ear, one that she was intimately familiar with.

"Hello, Miss Valentine."

Chills raced up and down Jill's spine. Reeling, she almost dropped the phone. She hadn't heard Wesker's voice for over a year, but she knew it was him. Anger and a species of deep sorrow churned inside her chest as visions of the S.T.A.R.S. office swam before her eyes. For a moment, she couldn't believe she was actually talking to Wesker.

"Miss Valentine? I do hope you're not wasting my time. I did, after all, drop what I doing to answer you," said Wesker coolly.

"Cap— Wesker, please listen," said Jill quickly. Had she really almost called him Captain? "Claire… you know Claire, right? Chris' sister? She's really sick."

Wesker sighed faintly. "Well, then I recommend plenty of fluids and bed rest," he said dryly. Jill had the horrible image of him reaching to hang up. "Wesker, wait! Do you really think I'd call you for something as stupid as the flu?" cried Jill. "She's infected with something, one of your viruses! Damn it, don't you understand? She's dying!"

There was a dangerous sort of silence on the other side of the phone. "I see," said Wesker, his voice low. "Symptoms?"

"High fever, vomiting, delirium, and there's these ugly grey blemishes growing on her skin." Jill rattled the list off as easily as if she was at the S.T.A.R.S. office filing an incident report.

Wesker cursed softly under his breath. "Is anyone else affected?"

"No, I don't think so."

"And do you have any idea how she was exposed to the virus?"

"No," said Jill. "She came home feeling sick the other day and we didn't think anything of it."

Wesker was silent for a minute, clearly deep in thought. "Thank you for bringing this to my attention," he said. "Sit tight and do the best you can. I will be there shortly."

Jill opened her mouth, but the line suddenly went dead. Wesker had hung up. Numb with shock, Jill placed the phone back on the cradle. Wesker was coming to get Claire and Jill felt an abrupt thrill of panic. What was to stop him from killing her and Chris in the meantime? Why hadn't she thought of that before? Groaning, Jill buried her face in her hands, hoping beyond hope that she'd done the right thing. And then it suddenly occurred to her that Wesker hadn't asked for their address, almost as if he'd already known. But that was impossible… wasn't it?

xX-xx-XxxX-xx-Xx

AN: And thus it begins. Muhahaha! What is Claire infected with? And what are Wesker's nefarious plans for her? Check back soon for Chapter 2! Oh, and I made a cover pic/promo to celebrate the first chapter of this story. Go check it out on my DeviantArt homepage! (Check my Profile for link.) Once you get there, it'll be the first (very top) one on the left titled Under his Umbrella. :)