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 monsters,
she would lose some essential element of her own
humanity.
A single shot to its right temple, and the zombie collapsed
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 courtyard
-
- 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 carefully,
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 introduction
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 Chickenheart
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 managed
to survive, though she had to wonder - especially
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 Remington
was still tucked under the register and wondering
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 with 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 disoriented
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 happening...
"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 something
more, something that neither of them could afford
- 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 tangled
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 thousands
of those things out there.
If they could find other survivors, group together
... 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 ignored
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.
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