SAVEGUARD ⟼ leon s. kennedy

iii. trust me

Leon gave me something to sleep while we were en route to the southern coast of Italy.

"You need to catch up on your sleep," he had said gently, who knows how many hours ago now, and handed me two small red pills. I didn't ask any questions. I trusted him. Maybe I needed the sleep more than I needed to trust him.

When I open my eyes again, we're still in our escort car, parked close to a pier. The sky is grey, the waves lapping away at the beach greyer still. Flocks of seagulls are everywhere I look. The clouds look so heavy, like their underbelly is about to burst.

Leon is outside the car, talking to the driver. I can't understand anything they're saying, and for a second I'm scared the explosion in Tripp's office has finally taken away my hearing for good, but then I realise that they're speaking in Italian. I snap my fingers next to my ears, just to make sure.

I yawn, shuddering. How long had I been passed out for?

The walk from the car to the little fisherman's boat is short, but more difficult than it needs to be; my limbs still feel like they're asleep. Leon walks slowly, next to me, matching my pace, his black combat boots crunching on the patches of sand that made it onto the wooden pier. The boat waiting for us at the end of the wharf is rusted, its caramel coloured panelling chipping away from years of use. I see Leon looking out into the waves, his binoculars perched against his nose, and I follow his gaze.

I can make out, very vaguely, the shape of a cruise liner, floating like an island, and I wonder how long it will take us to reach it with this rusty piece of crap.

I hop into the boat, and Leon secures the latch closed.

"Do you get seasick?" He asks.

"You're about to find out," I say, shivering a little.

One corner of his lips turns up in a slight smile, like he thinks I'm joking.

•

Thirty minutes later, and we're inside the bowels of the cruise liner. It's made entirely of metal, so much so that it reeks heavily of the metallic smell, like blood mixed with rust.

It takes me a few seconds to realise that the ship is almost supernaturally quiet. The kind of quiet that I felt wrap around me back at the police station yesterday.

Except it doesn't feel like it was yesterday. It feels like six months ago.

Leon must have instantly realised that something is not right with the ship, his senses no doubt sharper than mine in all aspects. He crouches a little as he turns around the first corner outside the docking room we had made our way into. He turns to face me, his back against the wall.

"Do you have a flashlight?" He asks me.

I'm halfway through shaking my head no, and he's already tossing me one. My spirits sink. Five minutes into accompanying him on this damn mission and I'm already lacking.

"Keep it safe," he says. "Looks like they forgot to pay their electricity bills."

"What's the plan?" I ask, as eyes start to adjust to the darkness. The walls are steel and metal, rusted and blackened, pipes are hanging off the ceiling, creaking and sighing as the ship settles around us. I look down the corridor Leon had checked out: its littered with shelves, staff lockers, dead plants, shattered picture frames.

A lightning bolt of dread runs through my veins. My senses are pleading with me to leave. I don't want to be here.

"We need to make our way to the top, find the captain's cockpit, send out a message through the speaker system. See if anyone answers. Try sending a distress signal. Find the next ship."