Not far away, a local laborer suddenly clutched his throat, rolled around frantically, eyes wide open, as if he were about to die right then.
No one in the squad bothered to help; they just lifted him, tossed him onto the roadside, and that was it—no burial needed, the scavenging animals would eat him down to the bones.
Wesker walked over and took the suddenly mutating man away.
As soon as they reached the hillside, the man mutated into a Crimson Head Zombie, thrashing continuously.
Snap! Wesker shattered the zombie's limbs and tied it up.
He opened his communicator, and Simmons appeared on the other end, exhausted: "I captured a sample; it should be a zombie created from the Pupa Virus you developed. Someone is using the Pupa Virus to spread, causing a biochemical incident."
Simmons felt a chill; the creation of the Pupa Virus was his directive. He reported to his clan a project called the Pupa Virus Reconstruction Plan, intended to rejuvenate aging clan elders.
The clan members didn't know Simmons was secretly developing bioweapons; the clan is wealthy and doesn't need extreme measures like bioweapons to generate funds.
All of this was just a fallback plan Simmons left for himself to deal with Eddie. He would never forgive Eddie, who seized Ada; that bastard must die!
Now the fallback has turned into a dead end, leaving Simmons in utter despair—one misstep leads to another.
To cover his mistakes, he kept creating more incidents, eventually playing with fire and burning himself.
"Send someone to bring the zombie back. Your new mission is to find Eddie and discover what he and Ada are doing in Vadoren." Simmons said in a low voice, as if making a firm decision.
"Got it. I'll contact you if there's any news." Wesker said before hanging up.
People really attract what they fear most. Wesker hates this life—working for others, never knowing if tomorrow will come. Now he lives a life of constant uncertainty; life is truly ironic.
After leaving the military base, Wesker spotted an old acquaintance on a landing pad.
"Hey, Chris. Long time no see!" Wesker called out as he walked over.
Chris merely gave Wesker a casual glance, ignored him, and walked into a tavern to have a drink.
Wesker wasn't offended; he followed into the tavern.
Back in Raccoon City they had been good friends, but Wesker's betrayal turned them into enemies, and they'd been fighting for years.
It wasn't until a year ago, after Chris got married and had children, that he finally let go of the grudge.
"Where's your friend Alfred?" Wesker asked, holding a bottle of Fujiate as he took a seat at the table.
Chris munched on potato chips, sipped his drink, and replied, "I don't know. Get lost. I don't want to see you."
"Neo-Umbrella is rising; they've monopolized eighty percent of the bioweapon market. The whole world will be swept into a bioweapon frenzy. Aren't you going to become a savior?" Wesker provoked him.
"Someone tried that a year ago; their arguments were far better than yours. It's useless. Saving the world is a hero's job. I'm not a hero; I'm just an ordinary person." Chris sounded dejected, downing a glass of over‑forty‑degree white liquor.
"What's got you so down? Speak up. Isn't Jill already married? Why are you still hung up?" Wesker sneered, half‑joking, half‑mocking.
"Heh, you have a son, you know?" Chris retorted sarcastically.
Wesker's heart raced a few beats. "What are you talking about?"
"Your son is a mercenary in Idonia, you don't know? He knows his father is a notorious international fugitive, a loyal Umbrella lackey." Chris taunted.
"What on earth are you saying? I don't have a son!" Wesker grabbed Chris's collar and roared, agitated.
Bang! A bottle slammed against Wesker's head, shattering. Chris retrieved the broken bottle, tossed out some cash, and said, "Give me another one and clean this place up."
The tavern owner, clearly accustomed to such scenes, waved his hand, collected the money, swiftly swept up the glass shards, and handed over another bottle of liquor.
Wesker didn't mind the hit; it wasn't unacceptable to him and actually helped him calm down.
"Tell me, why say that? Where did you get the information?" Wesker poured himself a drink, looking composed.
"Everyone among mercenaries knows that, but there's good news and bad news. Which do you want to hear?" Chris said, pouring wine.
"Both," Wesker replied without hesitation.
"Two bottles of 1982 vintage wine," Chris raised two fingers.
"Boss, bring me two bottles of that 1982 vintage wine," Wesker shouted.
The middle‑aged owner lifted a shotgun and sneered, "We don't have such fancy stuff here. Want an 1982 shotgun instead?"
Wesker felt a rare pang of embarrassment and said, "Then give me the two most expensive reds."
Chris watched coldly; a smile to settle old scores with this longtime foe? Impossible.
"The good news is your son and your wife are still alive," Chris said calmly.
Wesker, solitary for so long, felt a flicker of emotion. "And the bad news?"
Chris's expression turned oddly strange. "The bad news is your son Jack doesn't side with you; he sides with Eddie, who funded Jack's training. Moreover, your wife Yasi married Eddie and bore him a daughter. In short, your wife ran off with Eddie and your son no longer acknowledges you."
Is there anything more unlucky in this world?
If there is, it's being a eunuch who can't even fight for a right.
Chris's mocking grin irritated Wesker, but he had no way to counter him.
"Eddie is truly despicable. Did you already know about this?" Wesker asked, still annoyed, even though he felt no affection for Mrs. Yasi.
Chapter 603: Maria Is Pregnant
"So you want to kill him? Go ahead, don't hold back. He may be my little brother‑in‑law, but I won't stop you. Go, don't be a coward—be a man." Chris encouraged, refilling his Fujiate.
"You're married?" Wesker didn't get angry; he just noticed the ring on Chris's finger.
"Yeah, a son and a daughter, just like my father—good life, no worries." Chris poured himself another Fujiate, snacked on more potato chips.
Wesker's anger suddenly cooled; he calmly lifted his glass and said, "It doesn't matter. Let's go somewhere else to talk, okay?"
"Boss, another case of Fujiate, please." Chris slapped a stack of cash on the table and hauled a case of liquor away.
The two went to a shabby apartment; Wesker frowned.
Chris set the case down, turned on a battered fan, and said, "It's not a bad place, especially in a war‑torn region. No need for flashy extravagance."
Wesker felt a bit melancholy. "Maybe this is the best choice—looks like idling, but actually living freely."
Chris replied knowingly, "I can't stay carefree. When a new type of bioweapon appears, I'll have to return to the battlefield."
"OBrien is retiring next year; his replacement got the position through connections. A good commander can keep the front lines thriving, while a foolish one will doom the whole unit. Are you sure you want to go back?" Wesker warned.
"Why are you telling me all this?" Chris shrugged; life in the Middle East is carefree—sending money home on schedule, no worries about diapers or anything.
"There aren't many elite squad members left. Eddie doesn't count; he left the path. Jill doesn't count; she's married. Barry is devoted to researching firearms, and you're the only one still alive." Wesker said.