by S. D. Perry
Leaving, it's leaving…
Her thoughts were slow and heavy. It took her a mo-ment to understand that its departure wasn't good news. She couldn't let it get away, let it repair itself and come back – she had to try and kill it while it was weak. Jill drew the Python and tried to take aim, but her vi-sion doubled suddenly and she couldn't focus on the receding figure as it dragged itself through the fiery wreckage. She felt light-headed and flushed and thought it very likely that she'd been infected by the T-virus. She didn't have to see the shoulder wound to know it was bad, she could feel hot blood coursing down her side, soaking into the waistband of her skirt. She wished she could believe that the virus was being washed out of her system, but she couldn't kid herself, even so direly injured. For a few seconds she considered the loaded.357 she still held – and then thought of Carlos and knew she had to wait. She had to help him if she could, she owed him that much. Summoning the last of her rapidly draining strength, Jill started toward Carlos. He lay by the fountain, groaning and half conscious, hurt, but at least she couldn't see any blood, maybe he's okay… It was her last thought before she felt her body be-tray her by giving up, dropping her to the ground and putting her into a very deep sleep.
Dark, elsewhere ringing and escape, fire and darkand bullets, can't hear, Jill running from the fire andthe thing firing, high-explosive missile aimed… aimed at my… face.
Carlos came to in a rush, confused and hurting and looking for the fight, for the Nemesis and Jill. She was in trouble if that thing got hold of her… It was a quiet, still night, and low fires burned all around, providing a dancing orange light and enough heat to make him sweat. Carlos forced himself to move, crawling to his feet and holding his ribs tightly, jaw clenched from the pain. Fractured or broken, maybe two of them, but he had to think about Jill now, had to shake off the effects of the multiple blasts and… "Oh, no," he said, forgetting about his aching ex-haustion as he hurried toward her. Jill was lying on a patch of burnt grass, perfectly still except for the steady ooze of blood from her right shoulder. Still alive, but maybe not for much longer. Carlos swallowed his pain and picked her up, the dead weight of her body making him want to scream in anger, at the insanity that had unfolded and grown in Raccoon, that had imposed its merciless grasp on Jill and on himself. Umbrella, monsters, spies, even Trent – all of it was crazy, it was a nightmare fairy tale… but the blood was real enough. He held her close, turning, searching. He had to get her inside, safe, somewhere he could dress her wounds, where they could both rest for a little while. There was the chapel in the mostly undamaged west wing; there were no windows and good locks on the door. "Don't die, Jill," he said, and hoped she was listen-ing as he carried her across the burning yard.
TWENTY
TIME PASSING. DARK AND DARK, AND FRAG-ments of a thousand dreams, spinning into focus for a brief glimpse before spinning away. She was a child at the beach with her father, the taste of salt on the wind. She was a gawky teenager, in love for the first time; a thief, stealing from wealthy strangers as her father had taught her to do; a student, training for the S.T.A.R.S., learning to apply her skills to help people. Darker. The day her father went to prison for grand larceny. Lovers she had betrayed, or who had betrayed her. Feelings of loneliness. And her life in Raccoon City, the very death of light. Becky and Priscilla McGee, ages seven and nine, the first victims. Eviscerated, parts of them eaten. Finding the crashed Bravo team helicopter outside of the man-sion; the smell inside, of dust and rot. Learning about Umbrella's conspiracy and the corruption and collabo-ration of at least a few S.T.A.R.S. members. The death of the traitorous team leader, Albert Wesker, and the Nemesis's final attack. Several times, half awake, she swallowed cool water and then slept again, more recent memories taking over. The lost survivors, the people she'd tried to save, the faces of the children, mostly. All of them, gone. Brad Vickers's brutal death. Carlos. Nicholai's flat, emotionless gaze, and Mikhail's sacrifice. And reigning over it all like the demonic epitome of evil, the beyond Tyrant monster, the Nemesis, its terrible voice calling for her, its terrible eyes seeking her wherever she went, whatever she did. The most troubling thing, though, was that there was something happening to her – a distant feeling, because it was happening to her body and she was very much asleep, but no less unpleasant for that. It felt like her veins were heating up and expanding. Like her every cell was becoming thick and heavy with strange spices, sticking to the cells around it, all of them boiling gently. Like her whole body was a vessel filled with moving wet heat. Finally, the gentle sound of falling rain lapped at the edges of her awareness and she yearned to see it, feel its coolness on her skin, but it was a long, tiring strug-gle to leave the dark behind. Her body didn't want to, protesting louder the closer she got to the surface of gray, the twilight between the dreams and the rain, but determined, she won out. After deciding that she was alive, Jill opened her eyes.
TWENTY-ONE
CARLOS WAS SITTING WITH HIS BACK TO THE door eating fruit cocktail out of a can when he heard Jill stir, the regular, consistent sound of her deep breathing becoming lighter. She turned her head from side to side, still asleep, but the movement was the most deliberate action he'd seen in forty-eight hours. He stood as quickly as he could, forced to be careful by the pinch of his tightly taped ribs, and hurried to the raised altar where she lay. He picked up the bottle of water at the base of the dais, and when he stood up again, she opened her eyes.
"Jill? I'm going to give you some water now. Try and help me out, okay?"
She nodded, and Carlos felt sappy with relief, hold-ing her head up while she drank a few swallows from the bottle. It was the first time she had responded clearly to anything, and her color looked good. For two days she had drunk when he'd pushed it on her, swal-lowing at least but white as a ghost and completely out of it otherwise. "Where… are we?" Jill asked weakly, closing her eyes as she lay her head back down on the makeshift pillow, a piece of rolled-up carpet. Her blanket was made from unburned drapes he'd salvaged from the
foyer."The chapel of the clock tower," he said softly, stillsmiling. "We've been here since – since the helicoptercrashed."
Jill opened her eyes again, obviously aware and rea-sonably focused. She wasn't infected, he'd been so afraid for a while, but she was okay, she had to be.
"How long?"
Talking seemed to be tiring for her, so Carlos tried to summarize everything that had happened, to save her the questions. "The Nemesis shot down the helicopter, and you and I were both wounded. Your shoulder was… injured, but I've been changing the dressings and it doesn't seem to be infected. We've been here two days, recuperating, you've been sleeping mostly. It's October first, I think, the sun set an hour ago and it's been raining off and on since last night…"
He trailed off, not sure what else he could tell her but not wanting her to fall asleep again, not right away. He'd been stuck with his own thoughts for long enough.
"Oh, I found a case of fruit cocktail, of all things, in the trunk in that one sitting room – the one with the chessboard, remember? Water, too, someone was hoarding, I guess, lucky for us. I didn't want to leave you alone, I've been, ah, taking care of you." He didn't add that he'd been cleaning her up, changing the drapes she lay upon when it was necessary; he didn't want her to feel embarrassed. "You're hurt?" she asked, frowning, blinking slowly. "Couple of fractured ribs, no big deal. Well, maybe when I have to pull the tape off, that's gonna hurt like a son of a bitch. All I could find was duct tape."
She smiled faintly, and Carlos softened his tone, al-most afraid to ask. "How are you doin'?" "Two days? No more helicopters?" she asked, look-ing away, and he felt himself tense slightly. She hadn't answered his question. "No more helicopters," he said and noticed for the first time that the color in her cheeks was overly red. He touched the side of her neck, and his tension grew; fever, not too bad, but she hadn't had it the last time he'd checked, an hour before. "Jill, how do you feel?" "Not bad. Not bad at all, hardly any pain." Her voice w
as flat, inflectionless. Carlos smiled crookedly. "Bien, si? That's good news, that means we can pack up and get out of here soon…" "I'm infected with the virus," she said, and Carlos froze, his smile fading.
No. No, she's wrong, it's not possible."It's been two days, you can't be," he said firmly,telling her what he'd been telling himself since he firstwoke up. "I saw one of the other soldiers turn into azombie, couldn't have been more than two hours fromthe time Randy was bit until he changed. If you have it,something would have happened by now."
Jill carefully rolled onto her side, wincing a little, closing her eyes again. She sounded incredibly tired.
"I'm not going to argue with you, Carlos. Maybe it's a different mutation because it came from the Nemesis, or maybe I picked up some kind of immunity, from being at the Spencer estate. I don't know, but I have it." Her voice shook. "I can feel it, I can feel myself getting worse!" "Okay, okay, shhh," Carlos said, deciding that he would leave immediately. He'd take Jill's revolver in addition to the assault rifle, and definitely a couple of hand grenades. The hospital was close, and there was at least one vaccine sample there, that's what Trent had said. Carlos had wanted to find the hospital earlier, for supplies, but he'd been too exhausted and hurt to go looking, at first – and then he hadn't wanted to risk leaving Jill alone and unconscious, dangerous for several reasons.
I'll go out front and head west, see if I can find a sign or something… Trent had also said something about the hospital not being there for much longer; Carlos hoped he wasn't too late. "Try and get back to sleep," Carlos said. "I'm going to take off for a while, to try and find something that might help you. I won't be gone long."
Jill already seemed to be half asleep, but she raised her head and made an effort to be clear, enunciating carefully. "If you come back and I'm – sicker, I want you to help me. I'm asking you now, I may not be able to ask you later. Do you understand?"
Carlos wanted to protest but knew that he'd want the same thing if he had the disease. Being dead sucked, but Raccoon was proof that there were worse things.
Like having to shoot someone you care about."I understand," he said. "You rest now. I'll be backsoon."
Jill slept, and Carlos started to load up. Just before he left, he gazed into her sleeping face for a long mo-ment, silently praying that she'd still be Jill when he got back. The hospital turned out to be much closer than he thought, less than two blocks away. Nicholai waited for Ken Franklin eagerly, knowing that the Watchdog's death would mark the beginning of the end game. Nicholai's growing frustration was about to come to an end. If the bastard ever shows up… But no, he was com-ing, and then Nicholai would be on track again. He checked the corner window of the office he'd chosen, overlooking the dark, empty street – also his escape route, if the sergeant turned out to be troublesome – fra-me tenth time in half as many minutes, willing the er-rant Watchdog to hurry. Nothing had gone as he'd planned, and although he'd made the best of it, Nicholai was losing his patience. The search for Davis Chan had been spectacularly un-successful; Nicholai hadn't even caught a glimpse of him during the two days he'd stayed in the city – and twice more the elusive soldier had managed to avoid a confrontation after filing his reports, sending Nicholai running all over town. Nicholai had also been planning to head to Um-brella's "water treatment" facility to get rid of Terence Foster earlier in the day, but he'd been further side-tracked in a wild-goose chase – he'd seen an uninfected woman near the RPD building, a tall, Asian-American woman wearing a tight, sleeveless red dress and hold-ing a gun like she knew what to do with it. She'd slipped into the building and was gone. Nicholai had searched for nearly four hours but hadn't seen the mys-tery woman again. So, all three of his targets, still alive. He'd been able to collect some Watchdog information, at least, uncov-ering a couple of private lab reports on the strength of the average zombie, but he'd had enough, enough eat-ing cold beans out of cans, enough sleeping with one eye open, enough playing big game hunter. By his count, he'd killed four Beta Hunters, three giant spi-ders, and three brain suckers. And dozens of zombies, of course, although he didn't really count those as wor-thy of note, not anymore. They just kept getting slower and stickier; Raccoon already smelled like a giant cesspool, and it was only going to get worse as the virus carriers continued to decay, turning into great sludgy piles of malodorous stew.
I'll be gone by then. After all, Franklin will be here any minute.
After two days of unmet objectives, Nicholai had come to see Franklin's appointment at the hospital as something solid, something he could hold on to – a sure kill. And as he'd passed long, solitary hours im-mersed in the growing chaos of uncertainty, the death of Ken Franklin had become extremely important. Once he was dead, Nicholai could blow up the hospital; once the hospital was destroyed, Nicholai could hunt down Chan and Foster, and then he could leave. Every-thing would fall into place as soon as he killed Franklin. Even as Nicholai embraced that thought, he heard footsteps out in the hall. Heart swelling with pleasure, Nicholai took his position by the window and waited for Franklin to find him. The cluttered office/supply room was on the fourth floor, not far from where he'd killed and hidden Dr. Aquino.
Come along, Sergeant…
When the Watchdog opened the door, Nicholai was leaning casually in the corner, arms folded. Franklin was carrying top of the line, a 9mm VP70, and he had it trained on Nicholai's face in the blink of an eye. Nicholai didn't move. "You're not supposed to be here," Franklin said coolly, his voice deep and deadly. He stepped further into the room, not taking his gaze – or the semiauto-matic – off of Nicholai. Time for him to find out who's smarter. Anyone could stage an ambush, but it took a certain amount of intelligence and skill to make one's opponent willingly walk into one. Nicholai feigned a mildly surly nervous-ness.
"You're right, I'm not. Aquino should be here, but he stopped filing reports yesterday. They thought he was too busy, working on the antiviral, but I've been looking since last night and can't find him." Nicholai had actu-ally filed several status reports with Dr. Aquino's name on them since killing him, to keep up appearances. "Who are you?" Franklin asked. He was tall and well muscled, with very dark skin and rather delicate-look-ing wire rimmed glasses. There was nothing delicate in the way he looked at Nicholai, however. Nicholai uncrossed his arms and lowered them very slowly. "Nicholai Ginovaef, U.B.C.S… and Watch-dog. I was tapped to check things out when the doctor went AWOL. You're Franklin, right? Have you had any contact with Aquino since your arrival? Did he talk to you about where he was going to secure the sample, or give you a combination, or a key?"
Franklin didn't lower his weapon, but he was obvi-ously confused. "Nobody told me about any change in plans. Who did you say sent you?"