Eric stepped into his apartment from outside with his arms full of grocery bags. He was using his feet to maneuver the pile of clothes next to the door to the side. The apartment was a comfortable sized, one bedroom, a bathroom, a kitchen, and a cramp living room. Everything seemed to be neat and tidy, except the living room. Clothes were in piles, and empty beer bottles were scattered in a contained area near the chipped coffee table that was pressed against his dry green couch. He went left into the kitchen and set the bags down on the counter.
"I need to clean this place up again," he mumbled to himself, as he began placing the canned and dry goods in the cupboard above the kitchen counter. The few other items he had were a six-pack of beer, milk, and a few frozen meals, which he put in the refrigerator haphazardly. Just when he was getting ready to throw away the brown paper bags, his telephone rang.
At first he debated on answering it, figuring that the answering machine could pick it up. However, he remembered that the last time he failed to answer; his employers had sent a few guards to pick him up. He shrugged and stepped back into the living room and lifted the phone from the cradle off the wall and placed it to his ear.
"This is Eric, how can I help you?"
"Eric, this is Mikhail Victor."
"Yes, Sir," he said, slackening against the wall as he said it.
"Orders just came down, we are calling everyone in ASAP, you have an hour to report in, we leave in two-five, that's 1500, copy?"
"Roger that, Sir. I will be there immediately," he replied and then heard the click of the ending of the other line. He hung his phone back up on the wall and ran his hands through his short brown hair.
He muttered the word 'Damn' and stepped into his bedroom.
Victor was his Platoon's Lieutenant, and one of the men that had trained him since he had joined the Umbrella Corporation's U.B.C.S. The man was tactful and knew how to handle himself. Lieutenant Victor was a man to obey and respect.
He drew out his fatigues from his closet and slipped out of his clothes. It took only a minute. He had done this too many times to waist time. He pulled out his black Beret from off of the top shelf in the closet and slipped it on, taking a moment to adjust it. He grabbed a pair of sunglasses from his nightstand and tucked them into his pocket. His boots came last as he had to put them on at the door.
Before he left, he placed the calls. He had to call each of the ten members of his squad and get them to report. Everyone was in, and they all replied the same. They would be there, they had no real choice.
After he grabbed his car keys from the hook next to the door, he switched off the lights and locked the door behind him, knowing it would be sometime till he could clean it again.
He arrived at the U.B.C.S. office in a renovated warehouse. He had been their more than once, so he knew the way by instinct. He parked on the far side of the parking lot and slowly made his way to the front doors. He could see another soldier outside smoking a cigarette, but couldn't make out his face. But as he neared, he got the distinct impression that it was Mitch. His impression was confirmed as he got closer. Mitch looked up and gave him a nod. He held out his pack of cigarettes to him, but Ryder shook his head and pulled out his own pack.
"Might as well hold onto them, we'll probably need them after this," he commented in between puffs as he lit up his own and leaned up against the wall. Mitch only gave a nod and inhaled his own.