by S. D. Perry
She couldn't really remember how she'd made it home. She hadn't been able to think straight, and had barely been able to see through eyes swollen from cry-ing. Outside of how it affected her, thousands had died; it was a tragedy so vast it was nearly incomprehensible. It could have been prevented. And it was Umbrella's fault. Jill pulled the Beretta out from under her pillow, al-lowing herself to feel for the first time the immensity of what Umbrella had done. For the last few days, she'd kept her emotions in check – there had been people to lead, to help, and there'd been no place for any per-sonal feelings.
Now, though…
She was ready to get out of Raccoon and make the bastards who'd let this happen know how she felt. They had stolen her hope, but they couldn't stop her from surviving. Jill chambered a round and set her jaw, the stirrings of true hatred in her gut. It was time to leave.
TWO
THEY WOULD BE IN RACCOON CITY IN JUST under an hour. Nicholai Ginovaef was prepared, and he believed his squad would do well – better than the rest, anyway. The nine others that made up squad B respected him; he had seen it in their eyes, and although they would al-most certainly die, their performance would be note-worthy. After all, he had practically trained them himself. There was no talking in the helicopter that carried platoon D through the late afternoon, not even among the squad leaders, the only personnel who wore head-sets. It was too loud for the troops to hear one another, and Nicholai had nothing to say to either Hirami or Cryan – or Mikhail Victor, for that matter. Victor was their superior, the commander of the entire platoon. It was a job that should have belonged to Nicholai; Victor lacked the qualities that made up a true leader.
I possess them, though. I was chosen for Watchdog, and when this is all over, I'm the one Umbrella will have to deal with, whether they like it or not.
Nicholai kept his face as stone, but he smiled inside. When the time came, "they," the men who controlled Umbrella from behind the scenes, would realize that they'd underestimated him. He sat near the A and C squad leaders against one wall of the cabin, soothed by the steady and familiar throb of the transport. The very air was charged with tension and heavy with the scent of masculine sweat; again, familiar. He had led men into battle before – al-though if everything went as planned, he would never have to again. He let his gaze wander over the taut faces of the troops, wondering if any of them would survive more than an hour or two. It was possible, he supposed. There was the scarred man from South Africa, in Cryan's group… and on his own squad, John Wers-bowski, who had taken part in an ethnic cleansing a few years back, Nicholai couldn't remember which one. Both men had the combination of deep suspicion and self-possession that might conceivably allow them to escape Raccoon, howevef unlikely – and it was un-likely. The briefing hadn't prepared any of them for what was ahead… Nicholai's own private briefing, two days earlier, had been a different matter; Operation Watchdog, they called it. He knew the projected numbers, had been told what to expect and how to most effectively dispatch the unclean, the walking diseased. They'd told him about the Tyrant-like seeker units that were going to be sent in, and how to avoid them. He knew more than anyone on the transport.
But I'm also readier than Umbrella can possibly imagine… because I know the names of the other "dogs."
Again, he suppressed a smile. He possessed addi-tional information that Umbrella didn't know he had, that was worth a great deal of money – or would be, soon enough. On the surface, the U.B.C.S. was being sent in to rescue civilians; that was what they'd been told, anyway. But he was one of the ten who'd been chosen to gather and record data on the T-virus carriers, human and otherwise, and on how they fared against trained soldiers – the real reason the U.B.C.S. were being sent in, aka Watchdog. In the helicopter that car-ried platoon A were two others, disguised as U.B.C.S.; there were six already planted in Raccoon – three sci-entists, two Umbrella paper pushers, and a woman who worked for the city. The tenth was a police officer, a personal assistant to the chief himself. Each of them probably knew one or two of the others that Umbrella had handpicked as information collectors – but thanks to his well-developed computer skills and a few "bor-rowed" passwords, he was the only one who knew about all of them, as well as where each was supposed to be to file their reports.
Wouldn't their contacts be surprised when they failed to report in? Wouldn't it be amusing if only one Watchdog survived and was able to name his price for the information that had been gathered? And wasn't it amazing to think that a man could become a multimil-lionaire if he was willing to expend thought, a bit of ef-fort, and a few bullets?
Nine people. He was nine people away from being the only Umbrella employee to have the information they wanted. Most, if not all, of the U.B.C.S. would die quickly, and then he'd be free to find the other Watch-dogs, to take their data and end their miserable lives. This time he couldn't help it; Nicholai grinned. The mission that lay ahead promised to be an exciting one, a true test of his many skills… and when it was over, he was going to be a very wealthy man.
In spite of the cramped seating and the dull roar of the 'copter's engines, Carlos was only faintly aware of his surroundings. He couldn't get his mind off of Trent and the decidedly weird conversation they'd had only a couple of hours ago, and he found that he kept replay-ing it, trying to decide if any of it was useful. To begin with, Carlos had trusted the guy about as far as he could toss him. The man had been way too happy; not outwardly so much, but Carlos had gotten the definite impression that Trent was laughing about something just beneath the surface. His dark eyes had fairly danced with humor as he'd told Carlos that he had information for him, stepping back into the alley he'd emerged from as if there had been no question Carlos would follow. There hadn't been really. Carlos had learned to be very careful in his line of work, but he also knew a few things about reading people – and Trent, though obvi-ously strange, hadn't been particularly threatening. The alley had been cool and dark and had smelled faintly of urine. "What kind of information?" Carlos had asked. Trent had acted as though he hadn't heard the ques-tion. "In the shopping district downtown, you'll find a diner called Grill 13; it's just up the street from the fountain and right next to the theater, you can't miss it. If you can manage to get there by" – he'd glanced at his watch -"say, 1900 hours, I'll see what can be done to help you." Carlos hadn't even known where to start. "Hey, no offense, but what the hell are you talking about?" Trent had smiled. "Raccoon City. It's where you're going."
Carlos had stared at him, waiting for more, but Trent had seemed to be finished.
God knows how he got my name, but this bato ain't playing with a full deck, "Uh, listen, Mr. Trent…" "Just Trent," he'd cut in, still smiling. Carlos had started to get irritated. "Whatever. I think you might have the wrong Oliveira… and while I ap-preciate your, uh, concern, I've really got to get going." "Ah, yes, duty calls," Trent had said, his smile fad-ing. "Understand, they won't tell you all you need to know. It will be far, far worse. The hours ahead may be dark ones, Mr. Oliveira, but I have faith in your abili-ties. Just remember – Grill 13, seven o'clock. Northeast corner of the city proper." "Yeah, sure," Carlos had said, nodding, backing away into the daylight, wearing a somewhat forced grin of his own. "Good deal. I'll make a note of it." Trent had smiled again, stepping out after him. "Be very careful who you trust, Mr. Oliveira. And good luck."
Carlos had turned and started to walk quickly away, throwing a glance back at Trent. The man had watched him, hands in his pockets again, his stance casual and relaxed. For a nutbag, he sure didn't seem crazy…
… and he seems a lot less crazy now, eh?
Carlos had still made it to the office a little early, but nobody seemed to have heard anything off the grape-vine about what was up. At the short briefing presented by the U.B.C.S. platoon leaders, they'd all been told what few facts there were: a toxic chemical spill had occurred earlier in the week in an isolated community, causing hallucinations that bred violence. The chemi-cals had dissipated, but regular c
ivilians continued to be harassed by those who'd been affected; there was evidence that the damage could be permanent, and the local police hadn't been able to get things under con-trol. The U.B.C.S. was being sent in to help evacuate the citizens who hadn't been affected, and to use force, if necessary, to protect them from harm. Top secret all the way. In Raccoon City. Which meant that maybe Trent knew something, after all… and what did that mean?
If he was right about where we're going, what about the rest of it? What didn't they tell us that we need to know? And what could possibly be far, far worse than a mob of deranged and violent people?
He didn't know, and he didn't like not knowing. He'd first picked up a gun at the age of twelve to help defend his family from a band of terrorists, and had gone pro at seventeen – for four years now, he'd been paid to put his life in danger for one cause or another. But he'd always known what the stakes were, and what he was up against. This was not at all cool, the thought of going in blind. The only consolation was that he was going in with over a hundred experienced soldiers; whatever it was, they'd be able to handle it. Carlos looked around, thinking that he was with a good group. Not good men, necessarily, but adept fight-ers, way more important in combat. They even looked ready, their eyes hard and watchful, their faces deter-mined -
– except for the B squad leader, who was staring off into space and grinning like a shark. Like a predator. Carlos was suddenly uneasy, looking at the guy, Nicholai something-or-other, cropped white hair, built like a weight lifter. He'd never seen anyone smile quite like that… The Russian met his gaze, and his grin widened for just a moment, in a way that made Carlos want to sit with his back to a wall, a gun in hand
– and then the moment was over, and Nicholai nod-ded absently at him and looked away. Just another sol-dier acknowledging a comrade, nothing more. He was being paranoid, that meeting with Trent had him on edge, and he was always a little skitchy before a fight…
Grill 13, next to the theater.
He wouldn't forget. Just in case.
THREE
JILL'S PLAN WAS TO SKIRT THE TOWN TO THE southeast, sticking to side streets and cutting through buildings as much as possible; the main streets weren't safe, and many of them had been blocked off in an at-tempt to corral the zombies, before things got too bad. If she could make it far enough south, she should be able to cut across farmland to Route 71, one of the feeders to the main highway.
So far, so good. At this rate, I'll make it to 71 before it gets completely dark.
It had taken less than an hour to make it from the suburbs to the apparently empty apartment building where she now stood, shivering a little from the damp chill that pervaded the poorly lit hallway. She'd dressed for ease of movement rather than protection from the elements – a tight shirt, a miniskirt, and boots, as well as a fanny pack to hold extra magazines. The body-hugging outfit clung to her like a second skin and would allow her to move quickly. She'd also brought a plain white sweatshirt for when she made it out of the city, which she now wore tied around her waist – for the time being, she'd rather suffer the chill and have her arms free. The Imperial was a slightly run-down apartment building at the southern edge of uptown Raccoon. Jill had discovered from her earlier excursions that once in-fected, the T-virus zombies went in search of food as soon as they could, abandoning their homes and taking to the streets. Not all of them, of course, but enough so that cutting through buildings was generally safer than being out in the open. A noise. A soft moan coming from behind one of the apartment doors farther down the hall. Jill froze, gun in hand, straining to hear which side it came from, and realized in the same moment that she could smell gas. "Shit," she whispered, trying to recall the layout of the building as the oily, pungent scent filled her nos-trils. A right turn where the corridor T-ed ahead, and…… and, another right? Or is the lobby right there? Think, you were here two days ago, Jesus, that's gotta be a massive leak…
There was another groan from up ahead, definitely coming from the apartment on the left. It was the mind-less, empty sound that the zombies made, the only sound they could make as far as she knew. The door was cracked open, and Jill almost imagined she could see the shimmering waves of gas-thick air pouring out into the hall. She gripped the Beretta tighter and took a step back-wards. She'd have to go back the way she'd come, she didn't dare risk firing and she didn't particularly want to fend off one of the carriers bare-handed; a single bite from one of them would pass the infection on to her. Another step backwards, and… Creak. Jill spun around, instinctively raising her weapon as a door swung open perhaps five meters back. A shuffling, stoop-shouldered man lurched out into the gloom, cut-ting her off from the back entrance. He had the sallow skin and dead eyes of a virus carrier, as if the fact that one of his cheeks had been ripped off wasn't proof enough; zombies felt no pain. As this one opened its mouth to moan hungrily at her, she could see the base of its gray, swollen tongue, and even the reek of gas couldn't entirely overwhelm the sickly sweet odor of its decaying flesh. Jill turned, saw that the hallway ahead was still clear; she had no choice but to run past the apartment with the gas leak and hope that its resident was too slow to try for her.
Go. Now.
She took off, staying as close to the right side of the hall as she could, feeling the effects of the gas as she pumped her arms for more speed – a soft distortion of light, a sense of dizziness, an ugly taste at the back of her throat. She ran past the cracked door, distantly relieved that it opened no wider, suddenly remembering that the lobby was directly to the right. She rounded the corner
– and bam, collided with a woman, knocking her down. Jill careened off her, hitting the stucco wall with her right shoulder hard enough that a light powder set-tled over them. She barely noticed, too intent on the fallen woman and on the three figures still standing in the small foyer, shifting their dumb attention to Jill. All of them were virus carriers. The woman, dressed in the tatters of a once white nightgown, gurgled incoherently and tried to sit up. One of her eyes was gone, the red, raw socket shining in the overhead light. The three others, all male, started toward Jill, moaning, their gangrenous arms raising slowly; two of them were blocking the metal and glass wall that led into the street – her way out. Three on foot, one crawling, reaching for her legs, at least two behind her. Jill scuttled sideways toward the security door, weapon pointed at the peeling forehead of the closest, less than two meters away. The wall of mailboxes behind him were made of metal, but she had no choice, she could only hope that the gas fumes were weaker here. The creature lunged and Jill fired, simultaneously leaping for the door as the semi-jacketed round tore into his skull…… and she felt as much as heard the explosion, sssssh-BOOM, a displacement of fiery air that shoved her in the direction she'd jumped, hard, everything moving too fast to separate, to understand chronologi-cally – her body, aching, the door dissolving, the world blotted out in shades of strobing white. She tucked and rolled, hard asphalt biting into her shoulder, the horrific smells of flash-fried meat and burning hair washing over her as shards of blackened glass peppered the street. Jill scrambled to her feet, ignoring all of it as she spun around, ready to fire again as flames began to eat the remains of the Imperial. She blinked her watering eyes, widening them, trying to see past the swimming flash spots that covered everything around her. At least two of the zombies were down, probably dead, but two others stumbled around in the burning wreckage, their clothes and hair on fire. To Jill's right and rear were the remnants of a police blockade, barrier rails and parked cars; she could hear more of the human carriers on the other side, shuffling and moaning. And there, to her left, already turning its slack and rolling head in her direction, was a single male, his ripped clothes slathered in drying blood. Jill took aim and squeezed the trigger, sending a bullet through its virus-riddled brain, walking toward it even as it crum-pled; there was a Dumpster just past the dying body, and past that, several uptown blocks of shopping dis-trict, now her best choice for escape.
Have t
o head west, see if I can work around the blockades farther along…
With the immediate danger past, she took a few sec-onds to catalog her injuries – abrasions on both knees and a bruised shoulder speckled with grit; it could have been a hell of a lot worse. Her ears rang and her vision still suffered, but those would pass soon enough. She reached the Dumpster and did her best to lean over it, to see down either side of the overcast north-south street in front of her. The bin was wedged be-tween the side wall of a trendy clothes shop and a decidedly crunched car, limiting what she could see. Jill listened for a moment, for cries of hunger or the distinctive shuffling sounds of multiple carriers, but she heard nothing.
Probably wouldn't be able to hear a brass band at this point, she thought sourly and hoisted herself up. Straight across from the Dumpster was a door that she thought led through a back alley, but she was more in-terested in what lay to the left – with any luck, a straight shot out of town. Jill jumped down, glanced to either side, and felt ten-drils of real panic wrap around her brain. There were dozens of them, left and right, the closest already mov-ing to cut her off from the Dumpster.