Resident Evil – Nemesis Page 4

  Or the fate that surely awaits the Hispanic. I wonder, what will he do when his friend starts to get sick? When he starts to change?

  Probably try to save him in some pathetic tribute to honor; it would be his undoing. Really, they were all as good as dead. Amazed by how predictable they were, Nicholai shook his head and went to get Wersbowski's ammo pack.

  FIVE

  ON HER WAY TO THE BAR JACK, JILL THOUGHT she heard gunfire. She paused in the alley that would eventually lead her to the tavern's back entrance, head cocked to one side. It sounded like shots, like an automatic, but it was too far away for her to be sure. Still, her spirits lifted a little at the thought that she might not be fighting alone, that help might be on the way…… right. A hundred good guys have landed with bazookas, inoculations, and a can of whoop ass, maybe a steak dinner with my name on it to boot. They're all attractive, straight, and single, with college degrees and perfect teeth… "Let's try to stick to reality, how 'bout," she said softly and was relieved that she sounded fairly normal, even in the dank and shadowy quiet of the back alley. She'd been feeling pretty bleak back in the warehouse, even after finding a thermos of still-warm coffee in the upstairs office; the idea of trekking through the dead city one more time, alone -

  – is what I have to do, she thought firmly, so I'm doing it. As her dear, incarcerated father was fond of

  saying, wishing that things were different didn't make it so. She took a few steps forward, pausing when she was about five feet from where the alley branched. To her right was a series of streets and alleys that would lead her further into town; left would take her past a tiny courtyard, with a path straight to the bar – assuming that she knew this area as well as she thought she did. Jill edged closer to the junction, moving as silently as she knew how, her back to the south wall. It was quiet enough for her to risk a quick look down the alley to the right, her weapon preceding her; all clear. She shifted position, stepping sideways across the empty path to look in the direction she meant to go

  – and heard it, uunnh, the soft, pining cry of a male carrier, half hidden by shadow perhaps four meters away. Jill targeted the darkest part of the shadow and waited sadly for it to step into view, reminding herself that it wasn't really human, not anymore. She knew that, had known it since what had happened at the Spencer estate, but she encouraged the feelings of pity and sorrow that she felt each time she had to put one of them down. Having to tell herself that each zombie was beyond hope allowed her to feel compassion for them. Even the shambling, decomposing mess that now swayed into view had once been a person. She didn't, couldn't let herself get overly emotional about it, but if she ever forgot that they were victims rather than mon-sters, she would lose some essential element of her own humanity. A single shot to its right temple, and the zombie col-lapsed into a puddle of its own fetid fluids. He was pretty far gone, his eyes cataracted, his gray-green flesh sliding from his softening bones; Jill had to breathe through her mouth as she stepped over him, careful to avoid getting him on her boots. Another step and she was looking down on the court-yard -

  – and she saw two more zombies standing below, but also a flash of movement disappearing into the alley, heading toward the bar. It was too fast to be one of the carriers. Jill only caught a glimpse of camo pants and a black combat boot, but it was enough to confirm what she'd hoped – a person. It was a living person. From the small set of steps that led down into the yard, Jill quickly dispatched both carriers, her heart pounding with hope. Camouflage gear. He or she was military, maybe someone sent in on reconnaissance; perhaps her little fantasy wasn't so far-fetched after all. She hurried past the fallen creatures, running as soon as

  she hit the alley, up a few steps, ten meters of brick, and she was at the back door. Jill took a deep breath and opened the door care-fully, not wanting to surprise anyone who might be packing a gun…… and saw a zombie lurching across the tiled floor of the small bar, moaning hungrily as it reached out for a man in a tan vest, a man who pointed what looked like a small-caliber handgun at the closing creature and opened fire. Jill immediately joined him, accomplishing in two shots what he was unable to do in five; the carrier fell to its knees, and, with a final, desperate groan, it died, settling to the floor like liquid. Jill couldn't tell if it had been male or female, and at the moment, she didn't give a rat's ass. She turned her eager attention to the soldier, an in-troduction rising to her lips, and realized that it was Brad Vickers, Alpha team pilot for the disbanded

  S.T.A.R.S. Brad, whose nickname had been Chicken-heart Vickers, who'd stranded the Alpha team at the Spencer estate when he'd been too afraid to stay, who'd crept out of town when he'd realized that Umbrella knew their names. A good pilot and a genius computer hacker, but when push came to shove, Brad Vickers was a grade-A weasel.

  And I'm glad to see him, regardless."Brad, what are you doing here? Are you okay?"

  She did her best to keep from asking how he'd man-aged to survive, though she had to wonder – espe-cially since he only seemed to be armed with a cheap.32 semi and had been the worst shot in the

  S.T.A.R.S. As it was, he didn't look good – there were splatters of dried blood on his vest and his eyes were haunted, wide and rolling with barely controlled panic. "Jill! I didn't know you were still alive!" If he was glad to see her, he was hiding it well, and he still hadn't answered her question. "Yeah, well, I could say the same," she said, working not to sound too accusatory. He might have information she could use. "When did you get here? Do you know anything about what's going on outside of town?"

  It was as though every word she said compounded his fear. His posture was tense, wound up, and he had the shakes. He opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out. "Brad, what is it? What's wrong?" she asked, but he was already backing toward the front door of the bar, shaking his head from side to side. "It's coming for us," he breathed. "For the

  S.T.A.R.S. The police are dead, they can't do anything to stop it, just like they couldn't stop this…" Brad waved one trembling hand at the bloody creature on the floor. "You'll see." He was on the edge of hysteria, his brown hair slick with sweat, his jaw clenched. Jill moved toward him, not sure what to do. His fear was contagious.

  "What's coming, Brad?" "You'll see!"

  With that, Brad turned and snatched the door open, blind panic tripping him as he stumbled out into the street and took off running without looking back. Jill took one step toward the closing door and stopped, suddenly thinking that maybe there were worse things than being alone. Trying to take care of anyone as she made her way out of Raccoon – particularly a hysterical man with a history of cowardice who was too scared to be reasonable – was probably a bad idea. She felt a chill thinking about what he'd said, though. What was coming, specifically for the S.T.A.R.S.? He seems to think I'll find out.

  Unsettled, Jill mentally wished him luck and turned toward the polished bar, hoping that the ancient Rem-ington was still tucked under the register and wonder-ing what the hell Chickenheart Vickers was doing in Raccoon, and what, exactly, had him so terrified.

  Mitch Hirami was dead. So were Sean Olson, and Deets, Bjorklund, and Waller, and Tommy, and the two new guys, who Carlos couldn't remember except one of them was always cracking his knuckles and the other one had freckles…

  Stop it, just knock it off! It doesn't matter now, all that matters is getting us out of here.

  The wails had fallen far enough behind for Carlos to feel they could stop for a minute, after running for what felt like forever. Randy's limp seemed to be getting worse with every step, and Carlos desperately needed to catch his breath, just to think…

  …about how they died, about the woman who bit into Olson's throat and the blood that ran down her chin, and the way that Waller started to laugh, high and crazy, just before he threw his weapon away and let himself be taken, and the sound of somebody screaming prayers at the uncaring sky… Stop it!

  They leaned against the back wall of a convenience store, a fenced recycling area wit
h only one way in and a clear view of the street. There was no sound except the faraway singing of birds, wafting over them on a cooling, late afternoon breeze that smelled faintly of rot. Randy had slid into a sitting position, pulling his right boot off to take a look at his wound. His lower pant leg was shiny wet with blood, as was the collar of his shirt. He and Randy were the only two that had made it, and just barely; already, it seemed like some impossible dream. The others in the squad had already gone down, and there were at least six of the cannibal zombies still coming at him and Randy. Carlos had fired again and again, the smells of burning gunpowder and blood combining with the stench of decay, all of it making him dizzy with adrenaline-driven horror, so disori-ented that he hadn't seen Randy fall, hadn't realized it until he'd heard the sound of Randy's skull smacking into the pavement, loud even over the cries of the dead. A crawling one had grabbed Randy and bitten through the leather of his boot; Carlos had slammed the butt of his M16 down, breaking its neck, his mind screaming uselessly that it had been eating Randy's ankle, and he'd scooped up the half-conscious soldier with a strength he didn't know he possessed. And they had run, Carlos dragging his injured comrade away from the slaughter, his thoughts incoherent and wild and, in their own way, as terrifying to him as the rest of it. For a few minutes, he'd been loco, unable to understand what had happened, what was still hap-pening…

  "Aw, Jesus, man…"

  Carlos looked down at the sound of Randy's voice, noticing with some alarm that his words were a little slurred, and saw the ragged edges of a deep bite maybe two inches above the top of his foot. Thick blood oozed steadily out, the inside of Randy's boot drenched with it.

  "Bit me, goddamn thing bit right in. But it was dead, Carlos. They were all dead… weren't they?" Randy looked up at him, his eyes dazed with pain and some-thing more, something that neither of them could af-ford – confusion, bad enough that Randy could barely focus. Concussion, maybe. Whatever it was, Randy needed a hospital. Carlos crouched next to him, his heart sick as he tore off a piece of Randy's shirt and quickly folded it into a compress.

  We're screwed, there were no cops out there, no paramedics, this city is dying or already dead. If we want help, we're going to have to find it ourselves, and

  he's in no shape to fight. "This may hurt a little, 'mono, but we gotta stop you from getting your boot all wet," Carlos said, trying to sound relaxed as he pressed the folded material against Randy's bleeding ankle. There was no point in scaring him, especially if he was as whacked out as Carlos thought. "Hold it down tight, okay?" Randy clenched his jaw, a violent tremor running through him, but he did as Carlos asked and held the makeshift bandage in place. As Randy leaned forward, Carlos studied the back of his head, wincing inwardly at the bloody, slightly misshapen spot beneath his tan-gled black curls. It didn't seem to be bleeding anymore, at least. "We gotta get outta here, Carlos," Randy said. "Let's go home, okay? I want to go home." "Soon," Carlos said softly. "Let's just sit here and rest for another minute, and then we'll go."

  He thought about all of the wrecked cars they'd run past, the piles of broken furniture and wood and brick in the streets, hastily assembled blockades. Assuming they could even find a car with keys in it, just about every street was impassable. Carlos didn't have a pilot's license, but he had flown a helicopter a few times – fine, if they happened to stumble across an airport.

  We'll never make it on foot, though. Even if Randy wasn't hurt, the entire U.B.C.S. was taken out, or damn near close. There's gotta be hundreds, maybe thou-sands of those things out there.

  If they could find other survivors, group to-gether… but tracking anyone down in this nightmare would be a nightmare all its own. The thought of Trent's restaurant occurred to him briefly, but he ig-nored it; to hell with that crazy shit, they needed to get out of town, and they needed help to do it. The squad leaders were the only ones who'd known the plan for pickup, or had radios, and there was no way Carlos was going to go back -

  – but I don't have to, do I?

  He closed his eyes for a minute, realizing that he'd missed the obvious; maybe he was more freaked than he thought. There was more than one radio in the world; all he had to do was find one. Send out a call to the transports – hell, to anyone listening – and wait for somebody to show up. "I don't feel so good," Randy said, so quietly that Carlos almost didn't hear him, the slur of his words more pronounced than before. "Itches, it itches." Carlos squeezed his shoulder lightly, the heat from Randy's feverish skin radiating out from beneath his

  T-shirt. "You're going to be okay, bro, just hang on, I'm going to get us out of here."

  He sounded confident enough. Carlos only wished that he could convince himself.

  SIX

  TED MARTIN, A THIN MAN IN HIS LATE 30s, had been shot several times in the head. Nicholai couldn't tell if he'd been murdered or if he'd been put down after contracting the virus, and he didn't care; what mattered was that Martin, whose official title was Personal and Political Liaison to the Chief of Police, had saved Nicholai the time it would have taken to track him down. "Most kind of you," Nicholai said, smiling down at the very dead Watchdog. He'd also had the courtesy to die near where he was supposed to be, in the detective squadroom's office of the RPD's east wing.

  An excellent start to my adventure; if they're all this easy, it will be a very short night.

  Nicholai stepped over the body and crouched down next to the floor safe in the corner, quickly dialing in the simple four-digit combination given to him by his Umbrella contact: 2236. The steel door swung open, re-vealing a few papers – one looked like a map for the police station – a box of shotgun shells, and what would surely become Nicholai's best friend until he left Raccoon: a state-of-the-art cellular modem, designed to look like a piece of shit but more advanced than any-thing on the market. Grinning, he lifted out the PC lap-top and carried it to the desk, the safe door closing itself behind him. His trip to the station had been reasonably uneventful, except for the seven undead he'd dispatched point-blank to avoid too much noise; they were embarrassingly easy to kill, as long as one paid attention to one's surround-ings. He hadn't yet come across any of Umbrella's pets, the only real challenge he expected to face; there was one nicknamed "brain sucker" that he was very much looking forward to meeting, a multi-legged crawler with killing claws…

  One thing at a time; right now, you need information.

  He'd already committed the names and faces of his victims to memory and had a general idea of where each one was supposed to make contact, if not neces-sarily when; all of the Watchdogs were on different schedules, subject to change but mostly accurate. Mar-tin, for instance, was due to report to Umbrella from a computer terminal at the RPD building's front desk at 1750 hours, about twenty minutes from now; his last report should have been just after noon.

  "Let's see if you succeeded, Officer Martin,"

  Nicholai said, quickly punching in the codes he'd ac-quired to access Umbrella's updated progress reports.

  "Martin, Martin… ah, there you are!"

  The policeman had missed his last two assigned win-dows, suggesting that he'd been dead or incapacitated for at least nine hours now. No information to collect there. Nicholai carefully read the numbers on the other Watchdogs, pleased with what he saw. Of the eight Watchdogs left after Martin, three others had failed to make their last assigned reports – one of the scientists, one Umbrella worker, and the woman who worked for the city's water department. Assuming they were dead – and Nicholai was willing to bet that they were -

  – that left only five.

  Two soldiers, two scientists, and the other Umbrella man…

  Nicholai frowned, looking at the designated contact points for each of them. One scientist, Janice Thomlm-son, would be in the underground laboratory facility, the other at the hospital near the city park; the Um-brella worker was to report in from an allegedly aban-doned water treatment facility on the outskirts of town, a cover for its use as an Umbrella chemical testing site. Ni
cholai didn't foresee any problems finding them, but both of the soldier Watchdogs had been taken off the map. "Where are you going to be, men…," Nicholai said absently, tapping at the keys, his frustration growing. At his last check only the night before, they had both been assigned to call in from the St. Michael Clock Tower…

  Shit!

  There they were, their names listed next to his; both men had been moved to portable status, just like him. They'd report in from Umbrella laptops or wherever was most convenient, and were only required to file once a day -which meant that they could be anywhere in Raccoon City, anywhere at all. A seething haze of red enveloped him, tearing at him. Without thinking, Nicholai charged across the of-fice and kicked Martin's body as hard as he could, once, twice, venting his rage, feeling a deep satisfac-tion at the wet sounds his boot made, the jerking move-ment of the body and the crunch of ribs giving way -

  – and then it was over, and he was himself once again, still frustrated but in control. He exhaled sharply and moved back to the desk, ready to revise his plans. It was simply going to take longer to find them, that was all; it wasn't the end of the world. And perhaps they would fail to report in, conveniently dying just like Martin and the other three. He could hope but wouldn't count on it. What he could count on was his own perseverance and skill. Umbrella wouldn't send in their pickup for nearly a week – the longest, they believed, that they could keep the disaster quiet – unless the Watchdogs called in with complete results, unlikely at best. With six days to find only five people, Nicholai was certain that he would be the only one left to pick up. "I won't even need all six," Nicholai said, nodding firmly at Martin's sprawled, lumpy corpse. "Three days, I'm sure I can do it in three."

  With that, Nicholai leaned forward and started to call up the maps he would need, happy again. Jill hadn't been able to find any shells for the 12-gauge, but she took it anyway, aware that her ammo wouldn't last forever; it would make a good club, and she might find shells for it later. She'd just about de-cided to try climbing over one of the western blockades when she saw something that changed her mind, some-thing she had fervently hoped never to see again.