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Essay collections by late greats like James Baldwin blended personal essays into memoir-esque collections that became best sellers. We head for the nearest bookseller when essay titans like David Sedaris or Anne Lamott have a new release.

Here are seven tips to help you craft a personal essay that will connect with readers. No subject matter is forbidden, no structure is prescribed. You get to make up your own form every time. They conclude with the author having learned, changed, or grown in some way and often present some truth or insight that challenges the reader to draw their own conclusions.

Instead, we stayed in our small rural West Texas town, and my parents took us to cemeteries. Your challenge is to evoke those senses and feelings without flatly stating them. All it takes to understand the importance of an outline is listening to someone who struggled to tell a personal story.

An outline will help you organize your thoughts before committing them to text. Consider your opening hook and the statement it makes, then map out the sequence of events or main points that support it.

I shivered and pulled the blanket tight around my shoulders in a vain attempt to trap my body heat.

Just like a good fictional story, your essay should have rising action. How have the events and thoughts you described changed your life or your understanding of life? Raise the stakes with each paragraph until you reach a climax or turning point. Plan to add a conclusion that will evoke an emotional response in your reader. Circling back to your lead in your conclusion is one way to give readers that full-circle sense. Try to restate your thesis in a way that reflects the journey the essay has taken.

Although I may start an essay with a notion of where I am headed, inevitably I veer away as I get new ideas or encounter dead ends. Sometimes I even seem to go backward, losing all direction. Nothing is wasted though, said the design professor, because every bend in the process is helping you to arrive at your necessary structure. By trying a different angle or creating a composite of past approaches, you get closer and closer to what you intend.

You begin to delineate the organic form that will match your content. They refuse to limit themselves to generic forms, which, like mannequins, can be tricked out in personal clothing. Nevertheless, recognizing a few basic underlying structures may help an essay writer invent a more personal, more unique form.

Narrative with a lift Narrative is the natural starting place since narrative is a natural structure for telling others about personal events. We instinctively turn to chronology as a way to recreate the past, putting our lives into a neat moment-by-moment order. The march of time can be methodical—first this, then this, then this. If unrelieved, it becomes the ticking clock in the jail or, worse, the flat line of death.

Savvy essayists, as a result, twist their chronology, beginning at the end or breaking to a moment in the past, even weaving together several timelines. More crucial, though, is their use of tension, which changes the flat line of chronology into a rising line—a plot. The sequence of scenes matches roughly the unfolding of real events, but there is suspense to pull us along, represented by questions we want answered.

Such tension forces the reader into a climb, muscles contracting. We keep on reading unless the writer stops stair-stepping upward toward the critical moment when change becomes necessary. If she flatlines on an emotional plateau, not raising the tension, then we are likely to lose interest and walk away. Jo Ann Beard, while clearly wrestling with the immobilizing impact of her own trauma, found a way to keep the reader moving both forward and upward, until the rising tension reached its inevitable climax: the graduate student firing his gun.

I have seen less-experienced writers who, by contrast, seem almost to jog in place emotionally, clutching at a kind of post-traumatic scar tissue. Instead, they meander around their subject until arriving, often to the side of what was expected. It also allows for a wider variety of perspectives—illuminating the subject from multiple angles. The formal limits of focus My own theory is that most personal essayists, because of a natural ability to extrapolate, do not struggle to find subjects to write about.

While a fiction writer may need to invent from scratch, adding and adding, the essayist usually needs to do the opposite, deleting and deleting. As a result, nonfiction creativity is best demonstrated by what has been left out. The essay is a figure locked in a too-large-lump of personal experience, and the good essayist chisels away all unnecessary material. She limits that essay to a single evening walk in London, ostensibly taken to buy a pencil.

I suspect Woolf gave herself permission to combine incidents from several walks in London, but no matter. Although the work is unified by the frame of a single evening stroll, it can also be seen as a combination of many individual framed moments.

If we remove the purpose of the journey—to find a pencil—the essay falls neatly into a set of discrete scenes with related reveries: a daydreaming lady witnessed through a window, a dwarfish woman trying on shoes, an imagined gathering of royalty on the other side of a palace wall, and eventually the arguing of a married couple in the shop where Woolf finally gets her pencil.

All that remains to unify the parts is an almost imperceptible thread of theme, not narrative. These moments have a broad similarity as a result; however, without their attached labels, we would not be able to connect the parts in a fully satisfying manner. The titles allow us to string together a kind of thematic necklace.

Dipping into the well Our attention to thematic unity brings up one more important dynamic in most personal essays. Not only do we have a horizontal movement through time, but there is also a vertical descent into meaning.

As a result, essayists will often pause the forward motion to dip into a thematic well. Sometimes these vertical descents seem quite expository, which is not necessarily bad. In fact, I once heard the nonfiction writer Adam Hochschild scold a group of MFA students for being so subtle in their writing that they left out critical signposts that readers needed.

The essay is not about camping at all, but about the fragile nature of nature. In fact, Berry uses several of these loops of reflective commentary, and though they seem to be digressions, temporarily pulling the reader away from the forward flow of the plot, they develop an essential second layer to the essay. Braided and layered structures So far we have looked at narrative, reflective, and segmented essays, but we have not exhausted our structural possibilities.

Many essays, for instance, are braided, weaving together two or more strands of story line in an interactive fashion.

To help the reader with transitions, she brackets the home movie with white space, putting the text into italics. We look at the italicized home movie for a while, then her memories, then the movie, and so on, letting one strand surface while the other is momentarily submerged.

However, like the lyric poem, the lyric essay is devoted more to image than idea, more to mood than concept.

It is there to be experienced, not simply thought about. And like many poems, it accomplishes this effect by layering images without regard to narrative order. A lyric essay is a series of waves on the shore, cresting one after the other. It is one impression after another, unified by tone. We begin to encounter the piece on a visceral level that is more intuitive than rational. Coming Full Circle Regardless of form, all essays must end, which raises a final worthwhile question: how to bring closure?

And it seems to move in its own peculiar direction, neither vertical nor horizontal. The sky hunkers down, presses, like a lover, against the land. So the best conclusions open up a bit at the end, suggesting the presence of the future. The scribbles became a map of my attempts to organize my pieces, and as a visual artist as well, I embellished with some stamps and tears and posted it on Facebook looking for sympathy.

He then sends Steve, now under his control, to shoot John and trap Rebecca and David in the airlock which he intends to flood. Griffith talks to Rebecca and David, but furious that they do not understand the beauty of his gift, he orders Steve to kill himself.

As David loses all hope, Rebecca worries about Griffith releasing the virus on the world, and when she recalls the grenade that Karen carries for luck, David drops it into the door, killing Griffith and allowing Rebecca and David to swim to the surface where they are retrieved by the Philadelphia S.

John also manages to escape, and his wounds are tended by a medic while the rest of the Philadelphia S. David falls asleep as he plots to make Umbrella pay for his part in the events that transpired at Caliban Cove.

Elsewhere, Mr. Trent agrees to three Umbrella executives' request for a more thorough investigation, but he is uncertain how long he can continue to play this game. This section contains words approx. Umbrella's going to pay for what they've done, one way or another. Barry's gruff voice broke the quiet in the room, his gaze thoughtful. Not local, but someone big, national. It's a good idea, but right now we don't have the proof to make anything stick.

And without evidence. A virus that accidentally turns people into zombies, being used to create unspeakable monsters as living weapons All it needs is a Nazi war criminal with an atomic weapon, we'd have a best-seller on our hands And I know Barry's got a lot of contacts. My concern is how to get in touch with them. The branch offices may already be tapped, and we want to keep Umbrella from learning about our plans for as long as possible.

Unfortunately, we won't have use of the S. S" Chris grinned suddenly. And he owes me a favor. Once we have solid evidence from the Maine facility, we can go to your friend, instigate a federal investigation. She wanted to act. Waiting for the S. I had been formulating a plan to infiltrate Umbrella headquarters, a risky proposition at best. It seems wisest to work on a smaller scale for now, but I do believe the three of you should drop out of sight, as soon as possible.

I also think it would be prudent for you to see what you can uncover on Mr. Trent, though I have the distinct feeling that you won't come up with much, if anything. Their strange benefactor had struck her as a very careful man. And we'll need to arrange for a rendezvous site after we've Jill heard it in the same instant and felt her heart freeze in her chest. A rustling in the bushes outside the window that Barry had opened.

David dove for the floor as bullets riddled the chair he'd been in, already grabbing for his weapon. Tufts of padding floated past his wide eyes as a smoking trail of holes tore across the wall, plaster and wood flying.

Bloody hell There was a split-second break in the onslaught, just long enough for them to hear the crash of glass breaking from the back of the house.

The room went dark as Barry's rounds found their mark, glass raining down from above. Light still streamed into the darkness from the hall, and there was another hail of bullets from outside.

Chris scrabbled on elbows and knees for the hallway and in one smooth movement rolled onto his side and took out the additional lights. The living room was now completely black, and the bursts of automatic fire stopped.

Over the ringing in his ears, David heard boots crunching on glass from back in the kitchen. The heavy steps paused, the intruder probably waiting for the window shooter to catch up and there will be more than two, covering the exits. Kitchen door, front porch, someone watching the windows. Another set of steps entered the kitchen, these hurried and shuffling, but they also stopped. The pair was waiting, either for more of their team or for the assembled S.

David's thoughts raced independently of him, reflexively considering and rejecting theories and options at lightning speed. We get upstairs, pick them off one at a time— —unless they mean to torch the house— —so we run straight through them, out the back— —except they've got the firepower advantage, maybe spook eyes and we'd be moving targets, no contest.

All he knew for certain was that they couldn't stay where they were. There was no cover for when the thugs got tired of waiting. There was shuffling movement from the right as Barry's hulking shadow crouched toward him. David's eyes had adjusted enough to see Jill and Rebecca on the other side of the coffee table, both of them crouched and holding handguns.

He couldn't make Chris out, but he was probably still by the hall. Barry's house was the last on the block, a wooded park just past. If they could slip out, get into the trees.

The thought stuck; even a bad plan was better than none at all, and they didn't have time to work out alternatives. Barry's gruff voice was soft and strained. They'd have to get out through the second floor. Barry, Rebecca, as soon as we start, hit the stairs fast to an east window, softest jump. We'll follow. David paused just long enough to scoop up the papers that Trent had given him.

He stuffed them inside his shirt, the crinkling pages cool against his sweaty skin. Nothing else in his briefcase would be damaging. He crept toward the yawning blackness of the opening to the hall, edging to where Jill and Chris were crouched.

The entry faced the side of the stairs. To the left was the front door and the foot of the steps. To the right, the quiet kitchen at the end of the long hall where the two Umbrella operatives waited. They go right, I'll take left, when the shooting begins the rest of the strike force should rush the front door. David hoped. If the timing wasn't perfect, they were dead. Away from the faint light from the windows, it was too dark for hand signals. He leaned close between Jill and Chris, pitching his voice as low as possible.

They wouldn't be aiming for the floor, and Chris could use the wall of the entry as a shield. Keep it up for six seconds exactly, no more. On zero, you need to be on the stairs, out of the corridor. On my mark He ran for the front door in a low crouch, the count ticking. Behind him, Barry and Rebecca lunged for the stairs through the crash of bullets.

David trained the Beretta on the darkness in front of him and was only a foot away from the door when someone kicked it open. His shoulder connected with the heavy wood and he threw himself into it, slamming it closed. He dropped to the floor and jammed his heel against the base. He fired into the door at an upward angle, five shots as fast as he could pull the trigger.

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There was a strangled scream, the sound of something heavy hitting the porch, and he fired three more before rolling to his feet, into the alcove at the foot of the stairs and out of the line of fire.

Their time was up. David spun, saw Jill and Chris already on their way Up and as his feet hit the first riser, there was a sound like an explosion behind him. The front door was suddenly a mass of flying splinters, heavy rounds tearing through the wood as the Umbrella team sought to end the battle. If the two Alphas hadn't killed the men in the kitchen, they were surely dead by now. Halfway up the staircase, David turned and fired twice more through the rapidly disintegrating door, hoping he'd bought the S.

Ten, maybe twenty seconds before they realize we're gone. It was going to be close. Rebecca stood on the dark landing, her heart pounding almost as loudly as the booming shots that chased Jill and Chris up the stairs. Come on, come on.

Barry was to her right at the end of the landing's hall, barely visible by the moonlight that streamed through the open window. Jill was the first to reach the top. Rebecca steered her toward Barry with a touch, Chris following close behind. The muzzle on David's nine-millimeter flashed brightly in the darkness on the stairs, and then he was in front of her, materializing out of the gloom like a sweaty ghost. Jill had already gone and Chris was halfway out, Barry gripping one of his hands as he struggled to balance himself.

Please God, let there be a mattress, a pile of leaves. The crash of the front door flying open was followed by heavy footsteps and muffled male voices, angry and commanding. Chris disappeared through the window and then Barry was reaching for her, his mouth a grim line. She jammed her pistol back in its holster and stepped to the window.

Barry's warm hand on her back, Rebecca crawled onto the sill and looked down. There were hedges against the side of the house, lush and thick and impossibly far below. She caught a glimpse of Jill, standing on the lawn, aiming her weapon toward the front of the house and Chris looking up at them, his face tight with strain: Her shoulder groaned as gravity did its work, Barry leaning out to give her less of a drop, her body suspended in mid-air.

He let go and before she could feel real terror, she hit the bushes. There was small pain, twigs and branches scratching at her bare legs, and then Chris was pulling her out, lifting her easily from the twining hedges.

Rebecca snatched the revolver out as she stepped onto the lawn, turning to face the shadows that made up the backyard. To her left, a dark stand of trees stood maybe twenty meters away, silent and still. Hurry, hurry. There was a thundering rattle of bullets inside the house and a thrashing thump in the bushes to her right, but she didn't turn, intent on her assigned task.

A movement, by the corner of the house. Rebecca didn't hesitate, sending two shots into the thickening of shadow, Barry's.

The figure crumpled, falling forward just enough for her to see that she'd hit a man clutching a rifle and that he wasn't going to get up again. There was a shout from the window, followed by a burst from an automatic rifle. Rebecca actually felt the bullets hit the ground near her feet, tearing up chunks of overgrown lawn.

Dirt pelted her legs. David and Jill fired back as they ran for the trees, Chris leading the way. The shooter either ducked or was shot; the dull clatter of the rifle fell silent. As they reached the first of the wooded shadows, Rebecca heard the wail of approaching sirens—followed closely by shouts and running steps across Barry's front porch. Seconds later, there was a squeal of tires. Rebecca stumbled through the brushy copse, dodging between narrow, gnarled trunks, trying to keep the others in sight.

The revolver felt too heavy in her slick grasp and her entire body seemed to be pounding, her legs shaking, her breathing sharp and shallow. Everything had happened so fast. She'd known they were in danger, that Umbrella wanted them out of the way, but knowing something wasn't the same as really believing it, as believing that violent strangers would break into Barry's home and try to take their lives. The thought that she might have killed someone. Her conscience would have to wait until she had time to think it through.

Ahead of them, the thick woods opened into a clearing, playground equipment gleaming dully in the pallid light. Chris slowed to a jog and then stopped where the line of trees ended, turning back to search the shadows for the rest of them. Rebecca caught up to him, Barry and Jill just behind her, all of them breathing heavily and looking as stunned and sober as Rebecca felt.

A stealthy, sliding movement. There was a third shot, louder, closer, and the shadow stumbled and fell, crashing against a tree before collapsing silently to the dirt. Except for the rising moan of sirens, the park was again still.

Resident Evil 2: Caliban Cove

Rebecca slowly raised her head, craning to look over her shoulder and saw David, standing, still pointing his Beretta at the fallen shooter. Jill and Chris were crouched next to her, both of them holding their weapons out, staring around them with wide, searching gazes. He wasn't moving. From somewhere far away, he heard sirens. Barry, can "Barry, can you hear me? Barry opened his eyes and then closed them immediately, wincing as the throbbing pain wrapped around his skull.

There was another pain in his left arm, sharp and insistent but not as complete as the ache in his head. He'd had acquaintance with both kinds of pain before. Got shot, met up with a tree He tried opening his eyes again as small hands moved across his chest, lightly searching. It took him a second to focus on the worried faces looming over him, Jill and Chris and a frightened-looking Rebecca, her fingers probing his shirt for the wound.

The sirens had fallen mercifully silent, though he could hear the cop cars pulling up his street, their powerfully revving engines echoing through the wooded park. The dark woods wavered unsteadily, and then Rebecca was gently pushing him back down.

Chris, give me your shirt. Barry flexed his arm slightly and scowled at the burst of pain, but could tell it wasn't bad; the bone was still intact.

She started wrapping Chris's T-shirt tightly around his arm, watching him intently. He felt light-headed and a little nauseous, but he still knew his own name and what day of the week it was; if it was a concussion, he wasn't impressed. I've had worse hangovers I must've hit a tree on the way down. They had to get moving before the cops decided to search the woods, but where could they go? It seemed unlikely that Umbrella would attack twice in one night, but it wasn't a theory worth testing.

None of their homes would be safe. At least his family was out of harm's way visiting Kathy's parents in Florida. The thought that they could have just as easily been at home, his girls playing in their rooms when the shooting had started. He staggered unsteadily to his feet, finding strength in the rage that he'd lived with since that night at the estate. Wesker had threatened Kathy and the girls to force Barry's cooperation in Umbrella's coverup, using him to get to the underground laboratories.

Barry's guilt had blossomed into fury in the days since, an anger that transcended any he'd ever known. His shoulders sagged from some unknown burden and when he spoke, he wouldn't meet Barry's gaze. He held up a nine-millimeter with a suppressor attached, blood spattered across the barrel. Barry, it's Jay Shannon. He heard the words, but was unable to accept them. It wasn't possible. You didn't get a good look, it's too dark Barry stumbled after him, his head suddenly aching from more than just smacking it on a tree trunk.

It can't be Shannon, there's no way, David's rattled from the attack, that's all, he made a mistake Barry grit his teeth against the pain and followed, for once hoping that his friend was wrong. The man had collapsed on his back or David had rolled him over. Either way, he stared up at them with lifeless eyes, a random pine needle stuck to one of the glazed orbs. The semi-jacketed round from David's Beretta had punched a hole directly over his heart; it had been a lucky shot.

Looking down at the shooter's ashen face, Barry felt his own heart turn to stone. Jesus, Shannon, why? Why this? Barry stared down at the dead man, Unable to answer. David's reply seemed hollow, toneless. Barry and I trained with him. He was worried about us, said he'd keep an eye out for Umbrella I told him I'd send pictures of the kids, and he said that he had to get off the phone, that he wanted to talk but he had a meeting Umbrella must have already got to him, and the realization was cold and brutal and suddenly, horribly complete.

Umbrella may have been behind the attack, but the S.

Barry's home had been blown to hell by people they knew, and he'd been shot by a man he'd thought was a friend. The solemn quiet was broken by the barking of dogs, faint through the shadowy trees. From the number and location, it sounded like the RPD K-9 unit had just reached his house. Barry looked away from the corpse, his thoughts returning to the immediate situation. They had to move. And it's less than a mile from here. There was a small trail that let out two blocks away, hopefully far enough away from the action that the cops wouldn't follow.

Barry had walked through the park a million times, his wife at his side, his children dancing at their feet. This is my home, and it won't ever be the same again. As they ran through the warm, peaceful night, Barry felt the hole in his arm start to bleed again. He clapped his right hand over the sticky dressing without slowing, letting the pain fuel his determination as they tore through the scrubby trees and headed for Brad's house.

No more. No more of this. My girls aren't going to grow up in a world where this can happen, not if I have any say in it. So much had already happened, and this was only the beginning of their fight. There were still people working with the S. The next time Umbrella came knocking, maybe they wouldn't have to run. And if Rebecca and David could pull off the Maine operation, they'd have what they needed to take the company down, once and for all. Umbrella had messed with the wrong people.

Barry planned on being there when they figured that out. Jill picked the lock expertly, using a bent safety pin and one of Rebecca's earrings to open the door to the small cottage. Rebecca had swept Barry off to the medicine cabinet, while Chris went searching for a shirt. David and Jill checked the small house thoroughly, David's satisfaction growing with each passing moment.

He couldn't have imagined a better hideout, and it was comforting to know that Barry and the two Alphas would have a safe spot to work from. The twobedroom home shared a backyard with a securityconscious family; bright lights snapped on when David opened the back door, flooding the small lawn brilliantly and from the sight of the neighbor's side, they definitely had a rather large dog somewhere on the premises.

There were houses close on either side of the rental, and the front window looked out on an open schoolyard just across the street. There would be no cover for an approaching team.

The house was furnished simply, if untidily; it was obvious that the occupant had fled in a panic. Personal items and books were strewn randomly across the rooms, as if Vickers had been unable to decide what to take in his hurry to flee Raccoon City. With what happened tonight, I can't say I blame him for running Vickers had obviously been in the wrong line of work, but that didn't necessarily make him a coward.

Risking one's life on a day-to-day basis wasn't for Everyone and considering the recent developments, it was wisest for someone like Vickers to remove himself from the situation. They could have used the help, but from what little Barry had told him, the Alpha pilot wasn't someone they wanted to work with.

Even if he didn't get himself killed, he'd lost the trust of his teammates, and nothing could be worse when it came to crisis situations. David sat in the dark, cramped living room on a rather hideous green couch, collecting his exhausted thoughts as Jill dug through the kitchen. He'd found a blank pad of paper and a pen, and had already scribbled down the names and home numbers of his team and various contacts, as well as Brad's phone number to take with him.

He gazed blankly around the shadowed room, fighting off the adrenaline slump that so often followed battle.

He didn't want to forget anything important, any detail that needed to be discussed before he and Rebecca left. If they wanted to make their plane, Barry, Jill, and Chris would have to deal with the aftermath of the attack on their own. It was hard to focus after such a draining experience, and it didn't help matters that he'd been tired to begin with. He hadn't slept well in days, and thinking of all that lay ahead of them only made concentration harder.

Rebecca's information about Dr. Griffith was disconcerting, to say the least, and though he was no less determined to carry out the Caliban Cove operation, it was just one more concern to add to a seemingly endless list. Chris walked into the room wearing a faded blue sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off and fell into a chair across from David, his face hidden in shadow.

After a moment, he leaned forward, enough light filtering through the closed blinds so that David could see his expression. The younger man's gaze was tired, thoughtful and apologetic. Waiting to see what Umbrella was gonna do, the suspension, feeling like our friends died for nothing I shouldn't have been such an asshole about it.

He'd had no trouble expressing anger. Yet another legacy from dear old Dad. I—I've been under a bit of strain myself, and I didn't mean to come across as domineering. I want for them to be whole again Much to his relief, Chris seemed to understand; he met David's gaze evenly, nodding, as if to say that the air had been cleared between them. David sighed inwardly, wondering if he'd ever be able to overcome his awkward- ness with expressing emotions.

He'd done a lot of thinking since Barry had first called, about himself and his almost obsessive anger over the S. He'd thrown himself into his career in an effort to avoid dealing with a dysfunctional childhood, something he'd always known, but now, facing Umbrella and the treachery of an organization that he considered his family, he'd been forced to really think about the implications of his choice.

It had made him an excellent soldier, but he didn't have any close friends or attachments Brilliant for me to have figured it out this late in the game. I suppose I should thank Umbrella for that much; if they don't kill me, they'll at least have managed to send me into therapy.

Jill had brought out a pitcher of water and several mismatched glasses which she passed around as Barry and Rebecca joined them. Barry wore a clean bandage on his arm and seemed pale in the dim light, certainly shaken by their discovery of Captain Shannon. David felt bad about killing Shannon, though he'd reconciled himself long ago to the realities of combat; in a war, people died. The captain had made his choice, and it had been the wrong one.

They drank in silence, the four Raccoon S. He and Rebecca would have to leave in a few moments. There was a convenience store a block away where they could telephone for a cab.

David wished he could think of something encouraging to say, but the truth was the truth: Barry shrugged. The three of us were at my place, a buncha guys broke in and tried to shoot us.

We ran. And you should say that you were chased into the park. It would explain your leaving the scene, as well as Captain Shannon's body And I'm going to make some calls first thing tomorrow, get us some backup. You just worry about your end, okay? David shook hands all around and then turned to Rebecca, uncomfortably aware that he was taking her from her teammates and trusted friends.

The girl looked at the others in turn with a thoughtful expression and then grinned suddenly, an unaffected and purely wicked smile.

I hate to think of you flailing around all directionless while me and David go clean up this Umbrella thing. Keep it clean and dry, and if you spike a fever or get dizzy, get to a doctor ASAP. Good luck with Irons.

They'd just barely survived a serious attack, carried out by people who'd probably trained her, and she was leaving with a man she hardly knew to embark on a lifethreatening mission.

She was either putting on an act or was amazingly optimistic and if she was faking the casual bravado, she deserved an award. He watched her carefully as they stepped out into the small, unkempt yard of Brad Vickers's house, and saw her smile fade, quickly replaced by a look of vague sadness and beyond that, the same kind of focused intensity that she'd had when she'd told them about Dr. Griffith and his research.

Whatever she was thinking, he could see in that look that she was perfectly aware of the risks, but that she refused to be cowed by them. The perfect definition of bravery David was satisfied with his decision to enlist Rebecca Chambers for the operation. She was smart, professional, and committed, as superior in her field of study as the rest of his team members were in theirs. He could only hope that their combined skills would be enough to get them in and out of Caliban Cove in one piece, bringing with them proof of Umbrella's experiments, an objective that would lead to the ruin of the company that had corrupted the S.

David nodded, and the two of them set off to make the call. After rereading the information on Caliban Cove, Rebecca folded the papers and carefully tucked them into the overnight bag under David's seat. He'd bought three bags at the airport, one for the weapons, currently in cargo, the others to carry on so they wouldn't attract attention.

Rebecca wished they'd thought to buy some snacks while they were at it. She hadn't eaten since lunch, and the packet of nuts she'd swallowed after takeoff wasn't cutting it.

She reached up to switch off the reading light and then settled back in her seat, trying to let the smooth hum of the engines lull her into a doze. Most of the other passengers on the half-full plane were asleep; the dim "night" lights and the steady drone of the engines had already worked for David.

But even as drained as she felt by the evening's events, she gave up the effort after a minute or two. There was too much to think about, and she knew that she wouldn't be able to sleep without at least sorting through some of it.

I feel like I'm dreaming already anyway; this is just another weird tangent, a subplot that came out of left field In the past three months, she'd graduated college, gone through S. Bravo training, and moved to her first apartment in a new city—only to end up one of the five survivors of a man-made disaster involving biological weapons and a corporate conspiracy. In the past three hours, her life had taken yet another totally unexpected turn.

She thought about what she'd wished for earlier, a chance to get out of Raccoon City and study the T-Virus; the irony of the situation wasn't lost on her, but she wasn't so sure she liked the circumstances.

She rolled her head to the side and looked at David, crashed out in the window seat, dark circles of exhaustion beneath his closed lids. After briefly filling her in on a few details about the cove and outlining their schedule for the next day, he'd told her to try and take a nap "have a lie down" had been his exact words and then promptly taken his own advice—not falling asleep so much as lapsing into an instant coma.

He even sleeps efficiently, no tossing or turning Like he willed himself to get as much rest as possible in the time allowed. He struck her as an extremely competent and intelligent man, if something of a loner, for as cool as he was under pressure, he seemed to freeze with small talk, leading her to wonder what kind of life he'd had.

She was impressed with how quickly he'd come up with a plan to get them out of Barry's house, and was glad that he was leading the operation to Caliban Cove—though it was hard to think of him as a captain. He didn't really project authority, and didn't seem to want to, practically insisting that she call him David. Even when he'd stepped into a leadership role during the attack, it hadn't felt like he was giving them orders so much as offering instruction. Maybe it's just the accent.

Everything he says sounds polite He frowned in his sleep, his eyes flickering through uneasy dreams. After a few seconds, he let out a soft, child-like moan of distress. Rebecca briefly considered waking him up, but already he seemed to have got past whatever troubled him, his brow smoothing. Suddenly feeling like she was invading his privacy, Rebecca looked away. Dreaming about the attack, maybe. About having to kill someone he knew She wondered if she'd be haunted by the image of the man she'd shot, the shadowy figure that had crumpled to the ground next to Barry's house.

She was still waiting for the guilt to hit her and thinking about it, she was surprised to find that her mind wasn't racing to rationalize the matter.

She'd shot somebody, he could very well be dead and all she felt was relief that she'd stopped him from killing her or anyone else on the team. Rebecca closed her eyes, taking a deep breath of the cool, pressurized air hissing through the cabin. She could smell the musky odor of dried sweat on her skin, and decided that taking a shower was first priority when they hit the hotel. David didn't want to risk going back to his house on the off chance that someone on the strike force had recognized him, so they were going to grab a couple of rooms near the airport somewhere after they changed planes.

The operation briefing was set for noon at the home of one of the other three team members, an Alpha forensics expert named Karen Driver. David had mentioned that Karen could probably lend her some clean clothes, though he'd actually blushed while saying it. He was a quirky one, all right. The thought knotted her stomach and sent a chill through her, telling her the real reason she wasn't able to sleep.

Only two weeks after the Umbrella nightmare in Raccoon City, she was facing the same nightmare again. At least this time, she had some idea of what they'd be getting themselves into, and the plan was to get out of the facility without ever facing the T-Virus creatures, but the memory of Umbrella's Tyrant monster was still fresh in her mind, the massive, patchwork body and killing claw of the thing they'd seen on the estate.

And the thought of what someone like Nicolas Griffith might have come up with using the virus Rebecca decided that she'd thought enough, she had to get some sleep. She cleared her mind as best she could and focused on her breathing, slowing it down, counting backward in her mind from one hundred. The meditation technique had never failed her before, though she didn't think it would work this time Griffith, David, S. Before she reached ninety, she was deeply asleep, dreaming of moving shadows that no light had cast.

It was an awesome spectacle, from beginning to end. First the black waves shading to gray as the sky lightened, the craggy rocks that lined his cove slowly taking form in the misty winds that swept off the water. As the radiant star peered over the side of the world, its first hesitant rays stained the ocean a deep azure blue, painting the pastel horizon with promises of renewal and a gentle, nurturing acceptance of all that it touched.

It was a lie, of course. Within hours, the molten giant would beat mercilessly against the shore, against this half of the planet. Its early mildness was a deception, a pretended ignorance of the seeping radiation and withering heat that would follow It can't be blamed for a lack of self-awareness, after all; it is what it is.

Griffith always watched until the sun cleared the curving horizon before getting on with his day. Al- though he appreciated the beauty of each glimmering dawn, it was the routine that appealed to him, not his, but that of the cosmos.

Each sunrise was a statement of fact, speaking to an inevitable progression of time Beings such as myself, but for one very crucial difference: I know just how much my dreams are worth As the swollen orb lifted itself from the sea, Griffith stood up and leaned against the platform railing, his thoughts turning to the day ahead. Having finally finished the blood work on the Leviathan series, he was ready to work more extensively with the doctors.

All three had responded well to the change, and the rate of cellular deterioration had fallen considerably since he'd started with the enzyme injections. It was time to concentrate on their situational behavior, the final stage of the experiment.

Within the week, he'd be ready to expand beyond the confines of the facility. A cleansing. A crisp, saline wind ruffled his gray hair, the hungry cries of coasting gulls finally spurring him to action. The Trisquads had to be brought in before the scavenging birds moved inland.

Resident Evil. O Incidente de Caliban Cove - Volume 2

Several of the units had already been horribly scarred, and he didn't want to risk any more of them until he was finished. Once they lost their eyes, they were useless on patrol.

Still, it's been so long If Dr.To the left was the front door and the foot of the steps. Rebecca had swept Barry off to the medicine cabinet, while Chris went searching for a shirt. Rebecca's information about Dr. Hardly important. Introduce myself? Bravo training, and moved to her first apartment in a new city—only to end up one of the five survivors of a man-made disaster involving biological weapons and a corporate conspiracy.

The muzzle on David's nine-millimeter flashed brightly in the darkness on the stairs, and then he was in front of her, materializing out of the gloom like a sweaty ghost. She took a deep breath and blew it out.

MARGUERITE from Michigan
I relish reading novels perfectly . See my other articles. One of my hobbies is gunsmithing.