TEN
THERE WAS NO TIME FOR QUESTIONS, NO
time to wonder how it had found her so quickly. Jill
motioned for the young guy to get behind her and
backed into the dining room as he hurried past; she desperately
looked around for something she could use to
distract it long enough for them to escape. They ducked
behind the service bar, Carlos moving as though he had
some experience; he at least had the good sense to keep
quiet as the S.T.A.R.S. killer charged into the kitchen,
still screaming.
Fire! A guttering oil lamp sat on a cart next to the
counter. Jill didn't hesitate; it would reach them in seconds
if she didn't act immediately, and maybe a little
burning oil would slow it down.
She motioned for Carlos to stay put, scooped up the
lamp and stood, leaning over the counter and cocking
her arm back. The hulking Nemesis had just started
across the expansive kitchen when she threw the lamp
at it, grunting with the effort it took to make the distance.
The lamp flew, and then everything slowed to a near
stop, so much happening at once that her mind fed it to
her one event at a time. The lamp shattered at the monster's
feet, glass and oil splashing and puddling, a tiny
lake of spreading fire; the creature raised its massive
fists, screaming in anger; Carlos yelled something and
grabbed her waist, pulling her down, the clumsy movement
toppling them both to the floor
and there was a mighty clap of brilliance and
sound that she'd suffered once already since waking up,
a displacement of air that slapped at her eardrums, and
Carlos was trying to shield her, holding her head down,
saying something in rapid Spanish as time sped up to
normal and something started to burn.
God, again? The whole city's going to blow up at
this rate... The thought was vague, disoriented, her
mind muddled until she remembered to breathe. A deep
inhalation and Jill pushed Carlos's arm away and stood,
needing to see.
The kitchen was blasted, blackened, utensils and
cookware everywhere. She saw several canisters leaning
against the back wall, one of them the obvious
source of the explosion, its smoking metal sides peeled
back like jagged petals. Rancid smoke curled up from
the smoldering body on the floor, the Nemesis laid out
like a fallen giant, its black clothes singed and burnt. It
didn't move.
"No offense, but are you batshit?" Carlos asked, staring
at her as though the question was rhetorical. "You
could've barbecued us both!"
Jill watched the Nemesis, ignoring him, the .357
aimed at its still legs; its head and upper body were
blocked by a low shelf. The blast had been powerful,
but after all she'd been through, she knew better than to
assume anything.
Shoot, shoot it while it's down, you may not have another
chance...
The Nemesis twitched, a slight jerk of the fingers on
the hand she could see, and Jill's nerve fled. She
wanted out, she wanted to be far away before it sat up,
before it shook off the effects of the explosion, as it
surely would.
"We have to get out of here, now," she said, turning
to Carlos. Young, good-looking, obviously unnerved by
the blast, he hesitated, then nodded, holding his assault
rifle tightly to his chest. It looked like an M16, military,
and he was dressed for combat - a very good sign.
Hope there's more where you came from, Jill
thought, heading for the door at a brisk pace, Carlos
right behind her. She had a lot of questions for him and
realized that he probably had a few for her, too ... but
they could talk somewhere else. Anywhere else.
As soon as they were outside, Jill couldn't stop herself;
she broke into a run, the young soldier pacing her,
hurrying through the cool dark of the dead city as she
wondered if there was anyplace left where they could
be safe.
The girl, Jill, ran a full block before slowing down.
She seemed to know where they were going, and it was
obvious that she'd had some kind of combat training;
cop, maybe, though she sure as hell wasn't in uniform.
Carlos was desperately curious but saved his breath,
concentrating instead on keeping up with her.
From the restaurant they ran downhill, past the theater
Trent had mentioned, taking a right at a decorative
fountain at the end of the block; another half block and
Jill signaled at a door on the left for a standard sweep.
Carlos nodded, standing to one side of the door, rifle up.
Jill pulled the handle and Carlos stepped in, ready to
fire at anything that moved, Jill covering him. They
were in some kind of a warehouse, at the end of a
walkway that T-ed some fifteen meters ahead. It
seemed to be clear.
"It should be all right," Jill said quietly. "I came
through this way a few minutes ago."
"Better safe than sorry, though, right?" Carlos said,
keeping the rifle up but feeling some of the tension
leave his body. She was definitely a pro.
They edged into the warehouse, carefully checking it
out before saying another word. It was cold and not
very well lit, but it didn't smell as bad as most of the
rest of the city and by standing at the T junction in the
middle of the warehouse, they'd be able to see anything
coming well before it got to them. In all, it felt like the
safest place he'd been since the helicopter.
"I'd like to ask you something, if you don't mind,"
Jill said, finally turning her full attention to him.
Carlos opened his mouth and the words just spilled
out. "You want to ask me out, right? It's the accent,
chicks love the accent. You hear it and you just can't
help yourselves."
Jill stared at him, eyes wide, and for a moment he
thought he'd made a mistake, that she wouldn't realize
he was kidding. It was a stupid call, joking around in
these circumstances. Just as he was about to apologize,
one corner of her mouth lifted slightly.
"I thought you said you weren't a zombie," she said.
"But if that's the best you can do, maybe we ought to
reevaluate your situation."
Carlos grinned, delighted with her comeback - and
suddenly thought of Randy, of him playing around just
before they'd landed in Raccoon. His smile faded, and
he saw the bright glitter of humor leave her face, too, as
if she'd also remembered where they were and what
had happened.
When she spoke again, her tone was much cooler. "I
was going to ask if you were the same Carlos who sent
out a message about an hour ago, hour and a half
maybe."
"You heard that?" Carlos asked, surprised. "When no
one answered, I didn't think..."
Be careful who you trust. Trent's words flashed
through his mind, reminding him that he had no idea
who Jill Valentine was. He trailed off, shrugging indifferently.
"I only caught part of it, and I couldn't transmit
from where I was," Jill said. "You said something
about a platoon, didn't you? Are there other, ah, soldiers
here?"
Stick to the basics, and nothing about Trent. "There
were, but I think they're all dead now. This whole operation's
been a disaster from word go."
"What happened?" she asked, studying him intently.
"And who are you with, anyway, National Guard? Are
they sending backup?"
Carlos watched her in turn, wondering how careful
he needed to be. "No reinforcements, I don't think. I
mean, I'm sure they'll send someone in eventually, but
I'm just a grunt, I don't really know anything - we set
down, the zombies attacked. Maybe some of the other
guys got away, but so far's I know, you're looking at
the last surviving member of the U.B.C.S. That's Umbrella
Bio-Hazard Countermea..."
She cut him off, the expression on her face close to
disgust. "You're with Umbrella?"
Carlos nodded. "Yeah. They sent us in to rescue the
civilians." He wanted to say more, to tell her what he
suspected - anything to change the look on her face,
like she'd just found out he was a rasist or something,
but Trent's advice kept repeating, reminding him to be
wary.
Jill's lips curled. "How 'bout you can the shit? Umbrella's
responsible for what happened here, as if you
didn't know - where do you get off lying? What are
you really doing here? Tell the truth, Carlos, if that's
your name."
She was definitely pissed, and Carlos felt a moment's
uncertainty, wondering if she was an ally, someone
who knew the truth about Umbrella, but it could
also be a trap.
Maybe she works for them and is trying to feel me
out, find out where my loyalties are...
Carlos allowed a touch of anger to creep into his
own voice. "I'm just a grunt, like I said. I'm - all of
us are guns-for-hire. No politics, dig? They don't tell
us shit. And at the moment, I'm not interested in what
Umbrella is or isn't responsible for. If I see someone
who needs help, I'm gonna do my job, but otherwise, I
just want to get out."
He glared at her, determined to stay in character.
"And speaking of who-what-why, what are you doing
here?" he snapped. "What were you doing in that
restaurant? And what was that thing that you blew
up?"
Jill held his gaze for another second, then dropped
her own, sighing. "I'm trying to get out, too. That thing
is one of Umbrella's monsters, it's hunting me, and I
doubt very much that it's dead, even now - which
means I'm not safe. I thought there might be ... I was
looking for a kind of key, I thought it might be at the
restaurant."
"What kind of key?" he asked, but somehow, he
thought he already knew.
"It's this jewel, it's part of a locking mechanism to
the City Hall gate. There are two jewels, actually, and
I've got one already. If I can get the other one, get the
gate open, there's a way out of town - a cable car that
runs west, out to the suburbs."
Carlos kept his face neutral, but he was jumping beneath
his skin. What had Trent said?
Go west, for one thing .. . and when I find out where
the blue gem is, I'll understand their relevance ... but
what does this mean about Jill Valentine? Do I trust
her now, or not? What does she know?
"No shit," he said, keeping his tone mild. "I saw
something like that, in the basement at the restaurant. A
green gem."
Jill's eyes widened. "Really? If we can get it ... Carlos,
we have to go back!"
"If that's my name," he said, caught somewhere between
irritation and amusement. She seemed to leap
from mood to mood, brisk then funny then angry then
excited; it was kind of tiring, and he still wasn't sure
whether or not he could turn his back on her. She
seemed to be sincere...
"I'm sorry," she said, touching his arm lightly. "I
shouldn't have said that, it's just - Umbrella and I
aren't on the best of terms. There was a biohazardous
incident at one of their labs, here, about six weeks ago.
People died. And now this."
Carlos melted a little at the warmth of her hand.
Jesus, but he was a sucker for un primor, and she was
something to look at.
"Carlos Oliveira," he said, "at your service."
Down, boy. Head out of town, says Trent, but are you
sure you want to travel with someone who might end up
killing you? You want to clear your head before you
take off with the cuero Miss Valentine.
Immediately he started arguing with himself. Yeah,
be careful, but are you going to leave her all alone?
She said that monster was after her...
He joked about it sometimes, but he wasn't truly a
sexist; she could take care of herself, as she'd already
proven. And if she was one of Umbrella's spies ... well,
she deserved what she got, then, didn't she?
"I ... I wouldn't feel right about leaving without at
least trying to find some of the others," he said, and
now that he knew there was a way out, he realized it
was true. Even an hour ago, the thought would have
been ridiculous; now, armed with Trent's information,
everything had changed. He was still scared, sure, but
actually knowing something about the situation made
him feel less vulnerable somehow. In spite of the risks,
he wanted to walk a few more blocks before he left
town, make some attempt to help someone. He wanted
time to think, to make up his mind.
That ... and knowing that she survived means that I
can, too.
"I saw the gate you're talking about, the one over by
the newspaper office, si? Why don't I meet you
there ... or better yet, at the cable car."
Jill frowned, then nodded. "Okay. I'll go back to the
restaurant while you look around, and I'll wait for you
at the trolley. Once you go through the gate, just follow
the path and keep to the left, you'll see signs for LonsdaleYard."
For a few seconds, neither spoke, and Carlos saw, in
the careful way she looked at him, that Jill had her own
misgivings about him. Her leeriness made him trust her
a little more; if she was anti-Umbrella, it made sense
that she wouldn't be too hot on hanging out with one of
their employees.
Stop debating it and just go, for Christ's sake!
"Don't leave without me," Carlos said, meaning for
it to come out lightly. He sounded dead serious.
"Don't make me wait too long," she returned and
smiled, and he thought that maybe she was okay after
all. Then she turned and jogged lightly away, back
down the walk they'd entered by.
Carlos watched her leave, wondering if he was crazy
for not going with her - and after a moment, he turned
and walked quickly toward the other exit before he
could change his mind.
For someone who was bleeding like a stuck pig,
Mikhail was surprisingly swift. For at least twenty minutes
Nicholai had followed the trail of dark droplets
through a blockade, over gravel and asphalt, grass and
debris, and still he hadn't sighted the dying man.
Perhaps dying is too strong a word, considering...
Nicholai had planned to give up if he wasn't able to
find the platoon leader after a few minutes, but the
longer he searched, the more determined he became.
He found himself getting angry, too - how dare
Mikhail run from his just punishment? Who did he
think he was, wasting Nicholai's precious time? To
frustrate him even further, Mikhail had covered quite a
distance and was leading him back into town; another
block or so and he'd be at the RPD building again.
Nicholai opened another door, scanned another
room, sighed. Mikhail had to know that he was being
followed - or he just didn't have the good sense to lay
down and die. Either way, it wouldn't, couldn't be
long now.
Nicholai walked through a small, orderly office, apparently
attached to a parking garage, the erratic blood
trail shining purple on the blue linoleum by the caged
bare bulbs overhead. The splatters seemed to be thinning;
either Mikhail was bleeding out - unlikely, it
seemed - or he had found time to staunch his wound.
Nicholai gritted his teeth, reassuring himself, He'll
be weak, slowing down, perhaps looking for a place to
rest. I saw the hit, he can't go on much longer.
He stepped out into the dark, cavernous garage, the
cold air thick with the smells of gasoline and grease
and something else. He stopped, breathed deeply. A
weapon had been fired recently, he was sure of it.
He moved quickly and silently across the cement,
edging around a white van that blocked one of the rows
of cars, and saw what appeared to be a dog sprawled in
a puddle of blood, its strange body curled in a fetal position.
He hurried toward it, disgusted and thrilled at once.
They'd warned him about the dogs, how quickly they
became infected, and he knew that research had been
conducted on their viability as weapons at the Spencer
estate...
... and they were deemed too dangerous when they
turned on their handlers. Untrainable, and their decay
rate higher than the other organics.
Truly, the half-skinned animal at his feet looked and
smelled like a piece of raw meat that had sat in the sun
for too long. Accustomed as he was to death, Nicholai
still felt his gorge rise at the stench, but he continued to
study the creature, certain that the canine had been the
target of recent gunplay.
Sure enough. Two entry wounds below the torn flap
of its left ear... but not from an M16, the holes were
much too big. Nicholai backed away, frowning. Someone
besides Mikhail Victor had come through the
garage in the last half hour, and probably not a
U.B.C.S. soldier, unless they'd brought their own
weapon, probably a handgun...
Nicholai heard something. His head snapped up, his
attention on the exit door, ahead at two o'clock. A soft
sliding sound, an infected human brushing against the
door, perhaps - or perhaps a wounded man, slumped
and dying against the exit, too exhausted to press on.
Nicholai moved toward the door, hopeful and
grinned at the sound of Mikhail's voice, strained and
weak, floating past the aging metal.
"No ... get away!"
Nicholai eagerly pushed the door open, wiping the
smile off his face as he assessed the situation. A vast
wrecking yard, gated, vehicles piled in a useless barricade,
two more dead dogs limp on the cold ground.
Mikhail lay next to the garage door, partially propped
against the wall and trying desperately to lift his rifle. His
pale face was beaded with sweat and his hands shook
wildly. Five meters away, half of a person was pulling itself
toward the downed man on shredded fingertips, its
rot-sexless face corrupted into a leering perma-grin. Its
progress was achingly slow but constant; it seemed that
having no lower body - certainly not a complete digestive
system - didn't stop the carrier from wanting to eat.
Do I play the hero, save my leader from being
gnawed to death? Or do I enjoy the show?
"Nicholai, help me, please...," Mikhail rasped,
rolling his head to look up at him, and Nicholai found
he couldn't resist. The idea that Mikhail would be
grateful to him for saving his life seemed extraordinarily
... funny, for lack of a better term.
"Hang on, Mikhail," Nicholai said forcefully. "I'll
take care of it!"
He dashed forward and jumped, slamming his boot
heel into the carrier's skull, grimacing as a large section
of its matted scalp sloughed wetly away from the bone.
He brought his heel down again, and a third time, and
the once-human died in a thick, splintering crunch, its
arms spasming, its fleshless fingertips dancing briefly
on the asphalt.
Nicholai turned, hurrying back to kneel next to Mikhail.
"What happened?" he asked, voice heavy with concern
as he gazed down at Mikhail's bloody stomach.
"Did one of them get you?"
Mikhail shook his head, closing his eyes as if too exhausted
to keep them open. "Somebody shot me."
"Who? Why?" Nicholai did his best to sound shocked.
"I don't know who, or why. I thought someone was
following me, too, but - maybe they just thought I was
one of them. A zombie."
Actually, that's not so far from the truth... Nicholai
had to stifle another grin; he deserved an award for his
performance.
"I saw ... at least a few men got away," Mikhail
whispered. "If we can get to the evac site, call in the
transport..."
The St. Michael Clock Tower was the alleged evacuation
site, where the soldiers were supposed to take the
civilian survivors. Nicholai knew the truth - that a reconnaissance
team would put down first disguised as
emergency medical, and no other helicopters would
show unless Umbrella gave the word. Since the squad
leaders were probably all dead, Nicholai had to wonder
if any of the soldiers even knew about the "evacuation,"
though he supposed it wasn't important. It wouldn't affect
his plans either way.
He found that he wasn't enjoying this game as much
as he'd thought he would. Mikhail was too pathetically
trusting, it was as much of a challenge as hunting a
friendly dog. It was almost shameful to watch, too, the
way he surrendered to his pain...
"I don't think you're in any shape to travel," Nicholai
said coolly.
"It's not that bad. Hurts like hell, and I've lost some
blood, but if I can just catch my breath, rest for a few
minutes..."
"No, it looks very bad," Nicholai said. "Mortal. In
fact, I think..."
Creeaak.
Nicholai shut up as the door to the garage opened next
to them, a slow and even motion, and one of the
U.B.C.S. soldiers stepped out, his eyes lighting up when
he saw them, his assault rifle lowering, but only slightly.
"Sirs! Corporal Carlos Oliveira, A squad, Platoon
Delta. I'm ... shit, it's good to see you guys."
Nicholai nodded briskly, annoyed beyond measure as
Carlos crouched next to them, checking Mikhail's
wound, asking stupid questions. He was ninety-nine
percent sure he could kill both of them before they realized
what was happening, but even one percent was too
great a risk considering what was at stake. He would
have to wait ... but perhaps he could find a way to use
these new circumstances to his advantage.
And if not ... well, people turned their backs on
their friends all the time, didn't they? And neither of
them had reason to believe Nicholai was anything but.
What was the saying, about how an obstacle was
only a disguised opportunity? Things were going to be
fine.
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