Warning: this fanfic contains scenes of explicit violence and gore.

:xXxXx:

Leon Scott Kennedy chewed on the earpiece of his sunglasses absentmindedly, staring out the tinted glass of the limousine. His light brown, nearly chin-length hair fell across the right side of his face just as he had always worn it, which was as far back as he could remember. He sported a worn brown coat over a dark grey shirt and jeans, the latter combination revealing a strong and well-built figure. A man in his late twenties, Leon was of handsome face and stature, but his grim expression cast an ill colored shadow over his features.

Crisp, cool air blew in through the partly open window. It was autumn, and the passing trees had just begun to shed their golden burdens. Dry leaves blew about the sidewalk in a frenzy while many crunched under the car's wheels, but for every one that passed, Leon gradually recalled more of what he deemed his own slice of hell.

It had been two years to the day since he escaped; nonetheless, such was the way of life—good memories had a habit of fading, while the bad ones died hard. He still had the scars on his chest and arms to remind him of his scrape with death, but even without them, he would never forget a single detail.

The limo slowed, stopped, and after a short pause turned right.

But for all that he went through, Leon had stuck to his career. He figured if he could survive an experience like that, he could handle anything. Even so, he had chosen to lie low ever since returning, taking on only the lower-priority missions for a while. Now, having suspected another one of Umbrella's schemes to pop up at any time since setting foot back in the States, he decided to bulk up his latest assignments, just to be prepared.

It took Leon a few seconds to realize that the door on his right had been opened. He broke out of his thoughts, scooted over and stepped out, pocketing his shades. Behind him, a large fountain's golden waters glimmered in the sunlight, gurgling softly within the white stone basin. The courtyard's perfect green grass was trimmed and kept with the utmost care, just as he had last seen it two years before. Leon smiled briefly at the chauffer, a small, Asian man with a slight accent who had spoken little since the airport.

"Thanks."

The man inclined his head slightly before moving back around to the driver's side and getting in. As he drove off, Leon looked up at the White House towering in front of him. Except for the sentries outside the front doors, the place was relatively quiet, but he knew from experience how crowded it could be on the right occasion. The last time he had walked across the threshold, he had been wounded, covered with blood and exhausted. Caught off guard, he had snapped savagely at any of the unexpected reporters who tried to shove a camera or microphone in his face.

Leon felt that old irritation growing and shook his head to clear it. Guess I do need a break, he thought. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling wearily, and started for the entrance.

"Leon!" Lifting his eyes, he saw a young woman running down the staircase to meet him. She was dressed in a denim skirt and light pink V-neck sweater, her blonde hair reaching down to the tops of her shoulder blades. Perhaps it was just a trick of the time that had passed since their last meeting, but even later on, Leon thought she seemed to have matured some; but considering how she had been forced to grow up so suddenly, he wasn't too surprised.

Ashley skipped the last step, and Leon caught her as she threw her arms around his neck. "Hey!" She embraced him a while before drawing back, keeping her hands on his arms. "What took you so long?"

He studied her. Ashley's smile was the same, although more relaxed than before, and her eyes were shining. Returning the expression, he shrugged. "You know how it is. Work's a killer." She hugged him again, and this time Leon did the same, holding her tight.

"I've missed you," she said over his shoulder. His response was cut short as he spotted none other than the girl's father—President Graham—coming down the stairs, flanked by two guards. Ashley heard him coming and released her old friend at the same time that Leon gave an acknowledging nod.

"Mr. President."

Edward Graham was in his early fifties, square-shouldered and of tall stature. He had a kind face and an even kinder personality, Leon had learned, and clean cut, dark brown hair that was greying in some places. As he approached, Graham held out a hand.

"Mr. Kennedy."

Leon shook it firmly. "Please—Leon, sir."

"Well, then, Leon," said Graham with a pearly smile, "it's good to see you again, son."

"Good to be back, sir."

One of the guards automatically went to stand beside Ashley, who looked annoyed. "I'm just glad we finally get to meet again," Graham went on, finished with the introduction. "I'm sorry about all you had to put up with last time—I know the media can be a real pain sometimes."

"Compared with the company we had before, I couldn't complain," Leon joked. Graham waved dismissively.

"Let's not talk about that now. But I just want to thank you again for everything you did." He leaned forward. "Only thing is, you're the only thing I've heard about for the last two years." Out of the corner of his eye, Leon saw Ashley lower her gaze uncomfortably. "I've been wondering if half the good things my daughter's said are true—guess I'll just have to see for myself." There were a few more minutes of small talk before the president turned and motioned for Leon to follow. "Enough of my rambling; you'll get more than you bargained for by the time you leave."

As the group ascended the steps, Leon sent a fleeting glance at Ashley, grinning playfully, but her blushing face was turned away.

:xXxXx:

Half an hour later, Leon relaxed against the back of a plush armchair in the Grahams' large—and rather classy—living room. On his left, tall windows sent warm rays of yellow light over the sill, across the navy-colored carpet and onto the opposite wall. Paintings that depicted past leaders were illuminated, the solemn faces of the men within the frames seeming to glow with dignity and power. There were only two doors leading into the room, and at each was a pair of security guards—one man on the inside, one on the outside. Occasionally, they threw inaudible whispers into the microphones on their lapels, but for the most part they remained silent.

On the couch across from Leon sat the president and his wife. About a head shorter than her husband, Mrs. Graham possessed red hair that she had pulled back into a short ponytail. Her long face and pointed nose gave a strict impression, but when she spoke, her low voice was soft and welcoming. For the life of him, Leon couldn't figure out where Ashley got her looks.

The conversation had gone from a formal exchange to polite questioning about his travels, but once the missus opened her mouth, Leon knew it was up to the woman to start on a more personal level.

"So, Leon," she said, quietly and courteously, "do you have a wife, or a girlfriend?"

Despite the old pain that flashed across his memory, Leon kept his voice empty of any emotion. "No." He gave a careless smirk. "I don't exactly have the time, if you know what I mean."

"A very noble sacrifice of you," said President Graham with a laugh. "But maybe you'll meet someone during your stay—how long are you planning on being with us?"

Leon leaned forward to rest on his knees, rubbing his hands together. "Actually, there's a hotel in town that the agency—"

Graham rolled his eyes. "Oh, to heck with the agency. You're here on pleasure, not business. The least we could do for you is offer a place to stay; and I guarantee you'll get the best service you can find."

Right on cue, Ashley, who was seated on Leon's left, put on a hopeful smile. "Come on, Leon," she insisted innocently, although he knew she was pouring out every persuasive charm and puppy dog likeness she could conjure. "We've got a lot to catch up on, anyway." All three watched him expectantly, so Leon threw up his hands.

"I don't think I have much of a choice, if you put it that way."

"Glad you agree, considering your luggage has already been placed in one of the guest rooms," said Graham with a triumphant look.

Guess you can't expect anything less from a politician, Leon threw in silently.

"Now that that's settled," the president continued, "tell us a bit about yourself. We haven't exactly given you the chance. Where did you say you were from?" He saw one of the doors open and stopped. "Ah, hold that thought." A butler entered and made his way over to Graham, holding a phone.

"Phone call, Mr. President."

"I thought I told them not to interrupt me?"

"Yes, sir, but…"

Leon lost interest as Ashley leaned over and whispered, "Sorry about this."

"About what?"

She raised an eyebrow. "You're telling me you don't mind the whole interrogation process?"

He shrugged again. "After being through the academy, a father's questioning doesn't seem too dangerous." Ashley smiled. "How's college going for you, anyway?"

"Well, I haven't been kidnapped this year. But really, it's going okay. I've still got a few years of law school, though. I start back in a couple of weeks."

Nodding, Leon tried to imagine her as a lawyer. Before, it would have been a vision to make him snicker slightly, but now he saw no humor in it. She had turned out to be braver than he had initially believed, and he had no doubt that the incident, if anything, had hardened her and left her with a firmer grip on reality. Her announcement that she wanted to go into that field didn't shock him as much as he figured it would.

She was definitely changed from when he first met her in that storeroom, and as far as Leon was concerned, that change had been for the better.

Hearing her father click off the phone, Ashley straightened up. Graham apologized for the disturbance and clasped his hands together.

"Where were we? Oh, yes—you never answered me about how long you're staying."

"I had been planning on a week or two," said Leon, "but I couldn't ask—"

"Nonsense," Graham interrupted. "Stay as long as you like. I'm sure Ashley would be more than happy to show you around town."

Leon looked sideways at the girl. "Sounds good. And now that you're old enough, we can celebrate the anniversary by getting a couple of drinks. I'm joking," he added, seeing the president's suspicion.

There was a short, awkward quiet before Mrs. Graham, as loud as her frame would allow, said, "So, who's hungry?"

:xXxXx:

It was dark when Leon headed out onto the front lawn. He was full from dinner, but instead of feeling tired, he sensed there was a bundle of energy in him that needed using up. He walked around the outskirts of the courtyard, temporarily pausing at the locked gate to gaze out at the street. After a few moments he turned and moved over to the fountain, watching its shining depths. The White House was reflected in a rippling mirror, the lit windows sending a pattern of yellow squares over the surface. Leon spotted movement and looked up. Two dark figures were standing just a few steps away from the roof's edge; it processed that they were some of the several snipers placed there for extra security, and Leon turned his back on them and sat on the fountain's cool rim.

He felt the pistol at his side, thinking back to two instances when it had often been his only lifeline. Back then, his reaction to seeing unknown forms like that would have been to draw and fire without questioning. Deep in thought, Leon didn't hear footsteps approaching.

"Leon?" A glimpse over told him it was Ashley. "You okay?"

"Yeah." She sat down next to him as he raised his head. "Just thinking about old times."

"Oh." A brief silence ensued. "You know," she started slowly, "I still have nightmares about it. Sometimes." Leon didn't respond, and she forced a small "hmm" in place of a laugh, putting in, "It took me forever to stop looking over my shoulder wherever I went."

"Nothing to be ashamed of. First time I went through it, I was the same way. It's not exactly something you can forget overnight." Ashley turned, gripping the edge of her seat.

"How do you deal with it?" she asked. Surprised, he met her eyes and found them dark and earnest, a contrast to how they had appeared earlier. "Even the first time that you told me about, in Raccoon City—how could you go on with your job after that?"

Leon contemplated his reply. "…I'm not even sure about that one. But I guess I figured I'd never have to go through something like that again. Then after what happened two years ago…" He hesitated, thinking, and scratched the back of his neck. "I thought that if I lived through that twice, I must have some kind of purpose. I don't know."

Neither chose to speak for a while. He thought Ashley might go back inside, but was taken aback when she rested her head on his shoulder.

"I'm glad you came back," she said gently.

"Why wouldn't I?"

"You're gonna think I sound like a little girl."

"Try me."

"…It's just…back there, you treated me different—like a person, instead of just the hostage you were supposed to rescue. I wasn't just 'the president's daughter' for once." Her warm breath could be felt through his sleeve. "Not to mention you wouldn't take the reward from my parents after all that."

"Faith in money'll get you nowhere," Leon muttered, recalling the words he had said what seemed like a lifetime ago.

"And I never really got to say thanks for everything you did."

"You don't have to—"

"No." Ashley touched his arm, making him turn towards her. "Look, you did some really amazing things back there for me. The whole time, I felt like I was just getting in the way—but you never complained or anything. So…thanks." He looked away.

"You don't give yourself enough credit. You did your share."

It was Ashley's turn to scoff. "Yeah, here and there. But I still owe most of it to you." She placed a hand on his knee. It was a friendly gesture, but Leon coughed and stood up. "Sorry," she said quickly. "I didn't mean to—"

"No, it's not you." Striding a few paces, he stopped. "I just can't say I'm used to everyone watching," he explained, jerking his head at the various guards patrolling the grounds.

"Oh. Them. You get used to it after a while." She came to stand next to him, her face directed at the House, and sighed. "I should get going. We've got a long day ahead of us tomorrow." She lingered as if she wanted to say something else, but all that came was, "Good night, Leon."

"Night."

Leon watched her go. Their talk had helped to unwind him a bit, but why did he still have the nagging feeling that he was forgetting something?

:xXxXx:

Some time afterward, Leon entered his new room and closed the door behind him. The only light came from a small lamp on the dresser, which cast an orange, almost eerie glow across the large space. He didn't undress, but tossed his cell phone and belt on the desk, then fell back onto the large bed and proceeded to examine the ceiling. In spite of how far he had traveled today, he wasn't the least bit tired. Leon reached up and pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes, blocking out the dull auburn radiance.

He figured the place had just brought back a lot of memories; memories of times when he couldn't afford to be tired. Rolling onto his left side, he closed his eyes and waited for his muscles to loosen and his body to let up. He never discerned whether he actually fell asleep; but a while had passed—thirty minutes, an hour, he didn't know—when he heard his door squeak open.

Peering over his shoulder, Leon perceived the silhouette of one of the older butlers standing in front of the lantern. "Uh, I don't need anything, thanks," he said. "I just left the light on when I dozed off. You can leave it." He lied back down, finally beginning to feel somewhat drowsy. The door clicked shut, and shuffled footsteps followed. It didn't take long for Leon to comprehend that the noise was still inside his room. Sighing, he raised himself up on his elbow. "Look, I said I don't—"

Time froze. His words stuck in his throat as he caught sight of the butler—he was at the bedside, towering over Leon like an ominous shadow. In his right hand glittered a long steel blade—Leon blinked, thinking he was seeing things, but the light glinting off the tip of the kitchen-sized knife was real.

He didn't stop to question. His nerve endings were on fire, and his only thought was to obey what they were screaming at him: move!

Leon hauled himself forward and off the end of the bed in the same instant that the man swung. As Leon hit the floor, he heard a ripping noise and the snap of springs breaking. The butler yanked the knife from the mattress and turned, but his would-be victim was ahead of him. Twisting onto his side, Leon threw one of his legs into the guy's shins, sending him down, and immediately leaped on top of him to seize the wrist with the weapon.

This man had to be old enough to be his grandfather, but try as he might, Leon couldn't pry the dagger from his grip, which seemed as strong as steel. This caught him by surprise, and the butler took the opportunity to deliver a solid blow to Leon's ribcage. As it intended, he rolled to the side, gasping for the wind that had been knocked out of him. Still, Leon had the knowledge of a cop and training from the best. He grasped the legs of the nearby desk chair, swung it, and brought it hard into the butler's chest as he was making another dive.

Leon jumped to his feet and grabbed his belt, tearing the pistol from its holster and rounding on his opponent. For the first time, he received a good look at the guy's face.

It was blank. Completely blank. His eyes seemed to be looking past Leon, unfeeling and blind. But the blood red look in them—like dying embers—was filled with mindless hatred. To the end of his days, Leon would remember that look. Too often had it been staring back at him in deadly mass; he had once acquired it himself.

"Don't make me do it," he tried, already knowing the attempt was hopeless. The man kept on, arm poised to strike, and several seconds later was rewarded with a nine-millimeter bullet in his shoulder. Leon disregarded the clatter the weapon made as it hit the floor and continued to hold his gun erect. No emotion—not a single trace—crossed the butler's face as blood dripped down to the tips of his fingers and onto the rug. Suddenly it occurred that the clamor hadn't attracted anyone; the prospect of a conspiracy entered into possibility, and Leon's mind reeled. He had begun to debate if he shouldn't try and locate the president's room when a sickening sound reached his ears.

The sight itself was difficult to register. A dark stain was steadily growing on the man's white undershirt, and as Leon watched, something long and thick erupted straight from the torso, bringing with it a stench strong enough to make the most sturdy-stomached man fall over in disgust. Leon drew his arm across his mouth, careful to keep the growing limb in his line of fire. The thing stretched with a squelch until it was taller than its host. A long, whip-like strand squeezed out from between the folds of brown and red flesh and hovered above the butler's head.

"…Holy—" Leon's reflexes were generally quick, but nothing prepared him for the speed with which the tentacle lashed forward and curled around his gun hand. Almost instantly he felt the circulation to his fingers cut off, but he maintained his hold on the pistol and did what the monster least expected, or so he hoped: hurdle straight at it. Dropping to his knees, Leon slid out of reach to take hold of the abandoned knife and slash brutally at his captor. A high-pitched screech, and he was free. He threw himself backwards against the closet doors and fired one, two, three, four, five times into the space from where the creature had emerged. A low gurgling sounded in the butler's gullet as he collapsed; the horror that had torn itself from his body sagged and began to dissipate, and in a matter of seconds was nothing but a pile of dust.

They're back. Leon looked down at his arm, panting. It was bright red and glistening with whatever God-forsaken substance had coated the monster. But what was it? he wondered. He turned his attention to the corpse. The Las Plagas I knew never had that kind of speed. This one was different—like an upgrade. Stronger.

He swore again and reloaded his gun, going dead still when he heard voices coming from down the hall. Swiftly, he clicked off the light and placed himself behind his door, listening. Heavy footsteps stomped by—no more than two people, he guessed—and were soon gone. Momentarily relieved, Leon swung his belt back around his waist, clipped it, and pulled on his jacket noiselessly. He opened the door an inch, straining for any sign of life. There was yelling somewhere to the right, and what he thought might be gunshots followed shortly.

Is it an attack? And if so, am I the only one around who's resisting? Leon slipped into the corridor, back to the wall, and started towards the racket. He met no opposition on the way, but soon found out why.

When being shown his own room, Leon had seen where the president's was located. That, and common sense, told him that the cluster of bodies he stumbled upon was piled in the doorway of Graham's quarters. The smell of blood was overwhelming, but he bent down and inspected the carcasses. All of them were dressed in the uniforms of the White House security, but of the dozen that lied there, only two that he could see had holes in their chests similar to the butler's. Leon stepped over them and into the room, where he froze in his tracks. Stretched across the carpet, eyes wide open in eternal surprise, lay President Graham, his clothes shredded with bullet holes and knife-inflicted wounds.

It felt as though Leon's lungs had collapsed. He quickly tore his face from the grisly scene and looked around the bedroom. There were obvious signs of a struggle—chairs were overturned, pictures had fallen from the walls. He saw that the closet door was opened partway and forced his legs to move.

"Mrs. Graham?" Leon shoved aside rows of neatly pressed suits to look inside. Empty. He searched everywhere possible—the bathroom, under the bed, inside an armoire—with the hope that she had somehow escaped alive.

How did this assassination go so well? Stopping, Leon looked down at the bodies again. Some of them were infected, but judging by the number dead, some were still on our side.

More running over his head. Voices barking orders.

It can't be another attempt to take over the States, he reasoned. Not with the president dead. But what else could they be after?

There was no question as to whom "they" were. The only reasonable explanation was that the Las Plagas sample—the one he had been forced to give up—had been opened and activated. And there was only one organization in his mind stupid enough to try it.

But Umbrella wouldn't do something this drastic. Leon went back into the hall. Not unless there was something here that it needed.

"Ashley." The word was a sledgehammer to his gut. Had she been attacked like him? Had she been caught? Was she what they were after? The questions buzzed in Leon's head until he almost couldn't concentrate.

Logic, Kennedy, logic. There's no way daddy would let me stay in a room anywhere near hers. Left was the direction he had come. He went right. Taking off at a run, Leon tried to follow some type of lead, but there was noise all around him. He anticipated an ambush with every step he took. There was no one. Then, faintly—

"Get away!" Porcelain shattering. "Let go of me!" Leon headed after the source, and then slid to a halt when someone rounded the corner up ahead. The guard was just as shocked, but his astonishment turned to abhorrence as his red eyes flashed.

"The agent!" he cried. "He's still—" Thrusting the gun's nozzle into the man's trunk, Leon let loose a few rounds until he slumped to the floor.

"Put me down! Leon!"

A jolt worked its way through his body. Leon turned the corner to see another guard attempting to half-drag, half-carry Ashley in the other direction, but she was scratching, kicking and screaming like a wild thing. Between the two of them and Leon stood several other men, with twice their number dead at their feet. Impulsively, he shot at them just as they had become aware of his presence, killing two. The rest charged, and he searched for something—anything—to use against them. His eye caught a large, antique-looking clock taller than he was. He slipped a foot behind its base and pulled it out, and then as it tipped forward rammed his shoulder into it. Its corner caught one guy in the head, knocking him to the floor with a splatter of blood across the white wallpaper. He didn't get up again. Another shot, and a second man was on his knees. Leon had to swerve to avoid a blow from a gun butt—which, luckily, was empty, he supposed, from the owner's previous fight with the loyal guards—but landed and sent a shell into the attacker's neck. A bullet whizzed by his left ear, and in response Leon drew out his knife and threw it. The gunmen shrieked as the blade sliced through his shoulder. Leon took aim and fired, and then sprang backwards as another tentacle burst from a fallen man's stomach; he could actually see ribs through the tattered skin. He pointed the barrel towards the creature and pulled the trigger.

Click.

Swearing, Leon threw himself onto his hands and did a rapid back flip, feeling a breeze as the monster just missed him. He reached behind him, unhooked a flash grenade from his belt, yanked the pin out with his teeth and tossed it. He shielded his face at the last second, and after a shrill bang looked up. The body remained, but the parasite was gone.

Leon got up and retrieved his knife. Ashley had been pulled down a little further, but not much. She thrashed about, beating her captor with her fists and using her nails to tear at anything she could reach. The man threw her on her back, knocking her breathless, and snatched a handful of her hair. She cried out, but Leon was on him, embedding the dagger as deep into his spine as his strength permitted. With a grunt of pain, the man released and hit the ground.

"Ashley—"
"Leon!" He took her wrist and helped her up. "What's happening? Why are they—?"
"Shh." Running up ahead. "Come on." Pulling her along, Leon threw open the nearest door, rushed in and closed it. Fortunately, what turned out to be a closet was just large enough for them both to fit in amongst the cleaning supplies. They held their breath in darkness as men spoke, close enough for them to hear every word.
"The agent must be alive," said one angrily. "The girl's probably with him." One of them drew dangerously close to the closet, and Leon held his knife at the ready as Ashley found his arm and gripped it.

"Take some men and search every floor," another commanded. "Seal the exits. They can't get far." The first guy grumbled in agreement, and the two were gone. Leon and Ashley waited a full minute before daring to relax.

"Leon," Ashley whispered, "how did they get here? I thought they were destroyed—there's no way…" She trailed off.

"I've got a hunch," Leon replied, voice low, "but right now let's focus on getting outta here." A small clack sounded as he reloaded.

"But we can't—not without my parents," she pointed out.

"I passed their bedroom on the way—I didn't see your mom, so there's a chance she made it out."

"And my dad?" Pause. "…Leon." He said nothing. "Leon, please…" Her voice was thick.

"…I'm sorry, Ashley." He expected to hear her burst into tears, or vainly stifle a sob, but there was only a deathly silence, enveloping him and combining with the shadows until Leon felt he would suffocate. She let out a shaky breath, and he knew she was on the verge of crying. Although his heart felt for her, he couldn't allow them to be distracted.

I'll kill them. Whatever it takes, I'll get whoever's behind this.

"Let's go." Leon opened the door, glancing either way, and signaled that Ashley should come after him. When the light hit her eyes, he saw that they appeared hollow, so grief-stricken and somber that they were almost harder for him to look at than her dead father's had been. It was then that he realized she was still in her nightgown, a white dress that hung down to her shins and left her light arms bare. It only seemed to add to the frostiness he felt coming from her, corresponding with the clean slate look that haunted her face. "Ashley, I need you to tell me—is there some way out of here besides the front door? A passageway, something?"

She nodded, but didn't look up at him. "There are a few exits in case of emergencies. But they'll know about them."

"But is there one they won't suspect?" Leon pushed. "One that only you know about?"

Ashley thought. "In the kitchen. It's old, and it collapsed a while back, so they might not—but it'll still be guarded—"

"But it's the best we've got. Which way?" She told him that it was a floor down, and gave directions to the quickest route. "Alright. Just stay with me, Ashley. We're getting out of this." He put his free hand on the small of her back, an inarticulate attempt at reassurance as well as a sign that they needed to move, and took off at a jog with her close behind.

The enemy prowled every hall and doorway, but thanks to Ashley, Leon knew the layout of the place as well as any of them, and disposed of each without much trouble.

"How many men you got in this place?" he asked, finishing off the last of a small mob that had just attacked.

"We're almost there," Ashley assured him. "Go down this hall, left, and then there're some doors at the end—"

They ran without seeing so much as one foe that wasn't dead, but once they entered the last turn, Leon came to a stop and threw out his arm to keep Ashley shielded behind him. Aligned in two rows, looking like an army of the undead trained by the Devil himself, were some ten to fifteen Plagas-infected personnel.

"There!" someone yelled, sounding the alarm that sent the tide forward. Leon's head snapped left, right—

"Leon, the chandelier!"

—Up—"Gotcha." He checked the position of the attackers—not yet, not yet…now!—

and shot. Some saw his plan and scrambled to get out of the way, but were still crushed by several hundred pounds of crafted metal. Three managed to survive, but Leon dealt with them swiftly and hurried on. Ashley shrieked.

"Leon!" He turned to see her on the floor, fighting at a hand that had grasped her ankle from beneath the ruined chandelier. Running back, Leon brought his heel down onto the forearm until it let go. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her up. The hand twitched, its long fingers like the legs of a spider and the lines of blood across its back creating an almost web like design.

They arrived at the double doors leading into the kitchen and wavered. Leon peered into the Plexiglas window. "Where is it?"

"Under the refrigerator in the back corner—it's on wheels, so you can move it."

He pushed the door in half a foot and made a final sweep around the room. "Okay. Let's move." Together they slid inside, Ashley pointing where to go. They moved along between the islands stacked with dishes, careful not to touch anything. A dishwasher rumbled nearby, but the place was ultimately motionless.

All of a sudden there was a loud clang to his left, and Leon swiveled around, weapon in hand and finger on the trigger, but not before he caught movement in the other direction. "Get down!" He drew Ashley to him and hit the floor, covering her head as a pair of butcher knives spun overhead, hit a shelf and sent pots and pans clattering down on top of them. Sitting up, Leon shot at the apron-clad woman climbing over the counter until she fell back the way she had come.

More were swarming into the kitchen from God knew where, but Leon and Ashley were hardly halfway through. He stood and nailed each one, reloaded, and went on shooting, but they kept coming.

There's too many. Leon clutched Ashley's hand. "Run!" She hurled the frying pan she had been using as a club at a man's head and obeyed, partly yanked after Leon as she tried to keep up with his stride. They maneuvered between counters and appliances, dodging what attacks they could and stumbling where the floor was coated in something sticky. Ashley kicked over a cart of plates to slow their pursuers at the same time that Leon saw what he was looking for. Something ripped through his sleeve and sliced his right bicep, but he only turned to shoot the arm responsible and ignored the pain. Arriving at the designated spot, he threw all of his weight into the fridge, making it reveal the corner of a trap door in the floor underneath it. After killing whoever had come too close, Leon, with Ashley's help, uncovered the escape completely and threw it open. A black square stared back at them. "You first."

"Okay." Ashley crouched down and slid back into the hole on her belly until she was hanging by her fingertips. She closed her eyes, let go, and disappeared. Leon fired a few more times before jumping in after her.

The fall was short, and when he regained his balance using the wall for support, he was surprised to feel damp earth. "Kinda primitive, don't you think?" he wondered as Ashley rushed back to his side. There was no light except from above and to the right, where the tunnel stretched on. Around them lay boards, tools and other signs of construction, giving him an idea. "Quick—on my shoulders." Leon took a wooden shaft in his hand and stooped. "We need to block the door to slow them down." Not skipping a beat, Ashley clambered on top of him and took the board as he straightened up. He couldn't watch, but the light was soon extinguished, followed by a clatter of metal as she placed the beam in the handle.

"Alright—let's go," she announced. Even as he helped her down, fists pounded on the door and shouts were heard over their heads as more of their followers tried to break through.

"That won't hold them for long," he told her, starting towards the exit. "So where's this thing lead, anyway?"

Ashley ran beside him. "Just out back, behind the rose garden. I don't know if they'll be able to see us or not, but since it was designed to be a secret way out, there shouldn't be anyone there."

"But more than likely, they're expecting us," said Leon grimly. He turned on the flashlight in his belt.

The passageway went in a straight line for what he estimated was no more than a hundred yards. There was no sound of pursuit behind them, but they didn't falter until reaching the end. An old ladder rested against the tunnel's side, and up above was another door.

"I'll check it out—if anything happens, I'll try and distract them so you can get away."

"But—"

Leon climbed. At the top, he undid the latch and raised the door inch by inch. Night air flowed in to meet them as he listened. Nothing. He pushed it open all the way to find the back lawn empty, but he heard loud voices inside the White House to his left. He emerged from underground and flicked off his miniature light. "It's alright," he called down softly. Once they were both out, Leon led Ashley over to the side of the House for a brief respite in the shade.

"I don't like the look of it," he said suspiciously. "It's too quiet. We're gonna have to get out of here fast." He felt around his waist, and then cursed as he came up empty handed. The cell phone—in his haste, he had forgotten to pick it up after knocking it off the dresser in the fight. "No use going back for it," he said to himself. "Ashley, where—" Leon saw her eyes widen at the same second that he looked at her. Before he could process a reaction, something blunt connected with the base of his skull.

Red lights flashed across his vision. He lurched forward as a multitude of noise berated his throbbing mind, too jumbled to make out clearly.

"Oh, God—Leon—!"

"Take the girl."

He fell into open arms.

"Leon! Leon, wake up!"

Ashley…

"Leon!"