Perhaps Atticus heard him there toward the end - the scrape of a pebble beneath his shoe, the ripple of his cape as he moved - but, even so, it didn't matter. Here, in this place, Wesker was next to unstoppable.

He was suddenly there, appearing as if from thin air, his long, impossibly strong fingers curling around Atticus' throat. Squeezing, choking, strangling, as he lifted the young man free of the ground and slammed him back against the tree.

He said nothing, his face an impassive mask, his eyes hidden away behind the impenetrable dark lenses of his glasses, as he stared up into Atticus' face.