DEAD RISING OR ALIVE
ENCOUNTER ONE: ROSS, TONYA, LINDSAY, AND MADONNA VERSUS
RYU HAYABUSA
PARK VIEW MAINTENANCE TUNNELS, SEPTEMBER 22ND, 5:00AM
The foursome of shopping mall survivors, (or really three-and-a-half-some, sort of…with three humans and a dog) rested atop the operational Michelle Club truck in the dank subterranean corridors and waited.
Among them, a young, strong, yet somewhat out-of-action individual looked at the love of his life and sighed. Ton, what have we gotten ourselves into? he said to himself, looking down at the wound in his side. Ah, well, as long as she gets out alive…
Ross Folk'd taken a bullet to the abdomen for his woman, Tonya Waters, and would take a gang of gatlings more for her…so long as she would live through all of this. That was all he'd wanted.
He couldn't say as much for the other members of his party, however. A natty, prattling old woman and her organic mange of a pet, making eyes at one another as if they were interspecies spouses. Watching them coo-coo at each other obsessively, mistress to mutt and back, was enough to make him want to cast them both into the zombified mess of masses beneath them.
And he might've actually done so…really…had he not been in his present condition.
But then, of course, there was Tonya. She might not have approved of such allegedly amoral actions. On second thought, though, judging from the creases and the frustrated look on her face that Ross noticed just now, she probably wouldn't have minded his giving Lindsay Harris and her beloved poodle up to the undead public around them either.
Well, we'd probably be…"disqualified" from this "competition" for pulling a stunt like that anyway, Ross figured. And who knows, with that cowled lady who's even crazier than this countess of curs just inches away…
Said lady had appeared out of thin air, seemingly, on the third floor helipad of the Willamette Park View Mall just an hour before. The sudden entrance made a noise not unlike a megaton larva bomb, and all those who could, scrambled up the stairs of the security area to see what was the matter.
They first saw the woman, her face sheathed behind the aforementioned whimsical cowl, her body even more outstanding than the best of those whom Frank had saved or helped in the previous sixty-four hours. Behind the woman stood about twenty others, all intimidating in size, stance and/or sluttiness.
The eyes of each behind the woman radiated red for some reason.
Taking slow, deliberate steps, she swaggered towards the Coloradan survivors and said only this:
"Cower before the Contumacious Cowl of…LA COLMILLA!"
Of those in the belligerent babe's thrall, the storied simian photojournalist attempted to resist…but was quickly brought down, defeated, though not destroyed. Fifty- or sixty-some others followed him in the ensuing instants.
Then, before much more time passed, each of the humans not yet unalive in Willamette found themselves involuntarily committed to a several-on-one martial arts tournament. It would be many hapless, guileless, untrained locals against one superpowered fighter or fightrix, each encounter occurring one at a time, in a different location in the mall.
If the survivors won the majority of the fights…then they could go free, and keep their precious little condemned shopping mall full of monsters.
If the Cowled One and her minions won…then who knew what would happen to the Earth as the mallgoers knew it.
Though one group consisted of an injured man and his girlfriend as well as a doddering, senile old woman and her contemptible canine companion…this was the group that was first to represent Willamette.
On the other end—the Dragon Sword ninja himself, Ruy Hayabusa.
And now Ross tried to take in as many deep breaths as he could through damaged ribs, clutching the saw blade at his side. The survivors had taken whatever weapons they could find in the maintenance storage room Otis had told them about. Tonya had shouldered a sledgehammer while Lindsay had piled on a couple of pylons—you know, those orange cones you see on the sidewalk and murder during driver's tests.
Lindsay's dog, Madonna, was content to take yet another hunk of meat into her maw. It must have been the thirtieth detached arm she'd munched upon since her dreadful "entry" into Entrance Plaza…which initially cost the lives of about a dozen humans.
But, thanks to some eleventh-hour science by none other than Russell Barnaby, all of the initial doomed survivors were back on their feet and okay to fight. How this occurred is an anecdote for another time.
As the injured man looked listlessly across to the double doors to the butcher shop on the other side of the immediate tunnel area, he noticed something flitting fleetingly across his line of vision.
A small sprite of an object, puffing and poofing along in the air of the tunnel…
But wait, Ross thought. This tunnel doesn't have a lot of wind going for it. Not with the throngs of…things down here.
He looked over and saw a single leaf settling down upon the other truck in the vicinity—the one with slashed tires.
And there's no trees down here either…
Suddenly, also flitting past the man's line of vision, was another such leaf.
Then another.
Then about twenty or thirty more.
Ross and his lover gripped one another, aghast, as the leaves began to coalesce into a small funnel, then culminate into a fearsome fighter.
The haughty Hayabusa said not a word, but simply leapt deftly from his perch atop the slashed truck.
Four human eyes and four bitches' peepers watched as the ninja set upon tens of zombies and devoured them all with a single stroke of his Dragon Sword. In the next few seconds, he whipped his weapon around some more, disembodying droves of the dead just to make room for fighting…and, of course, to show off.
When he was done, the ninja's eyes shot back to the top of the working truck. Slowly he sheathed his sword again; the rules of the tourney were more than fair, at least at first glance, as the survivors not only had the advantage of numbers during the battles, but exclusive access to weaponry and even vehicles as well.
What Ryu did just now was simply…cleaning up the arena, a bit.
"If I'm gonna die," said Tonya bravely, picking up herself and her sledgehammer, "I want it to be with you, Ross.
"Even if it has to be this way…"
And with that, the woman jumped off the survivors' truck, some unfounded strength within her hefting the hammer above her head and striking down at the position where Ryu was…
…just a second ago.
Tonya's weapon bit into naught more than concrete as the ninja whirled away, dashing back and then back in again with a flurry of chopping jabs. Hayabusa's quick hands delved into the woman's midsection mercilessly, now one into her stomach, now one into her liver, now one into her kidney.
As Tonya stood there, dazed, Ryu finished with a flying spin kick that drove the woman hard against the wall.
"TONYA!" her lover cried from his higher berth. On the ground, the ninja didn't even turn his head in the direction of the yell, so intent was he on finishing off his first opponent. By the wall, a semi-conscious Tonya coughed and shunted her gaze downward in defeat.
This was more than Ross could bear. With a good deal of his ever-sapping strength, the man aimed the saw blade in his hand at Ryu's head, then let fly.
With the superhuman reflexes of a…well…a ninja, Ryu ducked away at the last second…but not quite quickly enough to avoid the blade's bite deep into his right shoulder.
"URKKKKK," the master assassin grunted against the searing pain. He looked wincingly at his shredded ball and socket, stupidly wondering for a maddened second whether to pull the thing out or not.
"Lindsay…Lindsay…Lind,…LINDSAY!" urged, then hollered Ross to the woman near him, who was heretofore engaged in some staring contest with her poodle. As the dowager turned, the man who could not run like the wind said, "we have to get ourselves and Tonya out of here. We can't fight this freak around here as well as we might…elsewhere. I have an idea."
As the old woman started to appear to understand, Ross grabbed her and she grabbed her dog. Tumbling off the roof of their truck, the man cried again to the woman who was his world.
"TONYA!"
This time, the survivors' ninja opponent turned at the sound of the name. Blood spurting from his shoulder, Ryu yelled as he watched his other three enemies climb into the cab of the intact Michelle Club truck.
"That won't help you," hissed the Hayabusa. "I am the Singular Super-Ninja."
"And we are the plural punkasses who're gonna TAKE YOU DOWN!!" responded Ross, pulling the truck into top gear, then rushing straight at his lover's would-be-killer.
As the man expected, Ryu whisked himself away before he could allow himself to be run over. That wasn't Ross's goal anyway.
"Ton, get in! Get in, quick!" the survivor cried to his girlfriend as he swung the truck alongside the far wall. Unfortunately, she wasn't responding.
"Tonya!"
Ross jumped out of the cab, heedless of the martial-arts-monster lurking in the tunnel. He had to get to his woman.
"Tonya! Come ON!"
Lightly, yet lovingly, he caressed her ebony cheek, then kissed her awkwardly on a closed eye. (Hey, this was in the heat of battle here).
As if by some fairy-tale knight-in-shining-armor energy, the woman awakened.
"Rr…oh, Rr…"
"Thank God you're okay. Tonya, we have to get going…come on."
And then, with some sort of supersurvivor sort of power, Ross Folk, who was heretofore carried on another's back, hefted his lady upon his own…
…and made it to the truck.
Where is that madman? Ross wondered to himself as he set the truck back into a driveable gear and darted down the tunnel. The contestants wouldn't be disqualified if they left the starting area—so long as they stayed within the vicinity of the designated area. In other words, as long as Ross didn't drive up into Leisure Park, or try to get into one of the doors formerly locked with the maintenance storage key, he would be alright.
And Ross had no intention of doing either.
But that ninny of a ninja was nowhere to be seen as the survivors pulled away from in front of the butcher shop.
He shuttled himself, his lover, and Old Lady Harris and her…lover down the tunnels, making the first left, then the first right. As he did so, he'd heard Lindsay speak (at least speaking sort of normal words) for the first time since they got down there.
He couldn't believe what he was hearing.
"McDonald's…my McDonald's…"
Oh, no, not now, he thought. Ross'd thought that, as long as the woman stayed with her pet, there wouldn't be any trouble from her. He'd gotten wind of her maniacal tendencies from the revived survivors from Entrance Plaza…how, when she didn't get what she wanted, she'd turn over hell and earth to get it, both of which were present in Willamette.
Ross was sure that, as long as Lindsay'd had her poodle, all would be well.
But then he forgot about the rumors regarding her fast food addiction.
As well as how hastily they pilfered the maintenance storage room, and probably left that bag of Big Macs and french fries behind.
And now Lindsay's cawing was getting all the louder.
"Have you seen my burger?" she quailed, grabbing at Ross's bloodied lapel. "Oh, I can't leave without my precious little all-beef patties! Oh, where is my McDonald's? Where is it?! Oh…"
Ross buried his head in his hands briefly as the truck settled to a stop in front of the maintenance room. Perhaps this might not have been the best place to drive to…
"Ross, honey," started Tonya, as she laid a warm hand on her lover's shoulder, "we can't give up now. We have to keep going, and keep alert. That sawbladed samurai could be back for us at any time…"
"I know, beautiful, I know…" Ross replied. "This might be the best spot in the tunnels…if he catches up to us and we can corner him in the room…"
Or if Ryu Hayabusa cornered them, a rebutting thought crept past Ross's mind suddenly.
Then, to confirm the man's worst fears: "MCDONALD'S!"
The injured survivor and his love didn't even have time to turn their heads as Lindsay Harris suddenly bolted from the stationary truck, her beloved bitch following closely behind. "MCDONALD'S! MY MCDONALD'S IS OUT THERE!!"
Ross Folk and Tonya Waters watched on in shock as the old lady barreled past idling zombies to get to a nasty, greasy bag filled with all kinds of fried crap. A smaller pouch for the pooch sat next to the larger sack of heart attack.
"AND YOUR HAPPY MEAL IS STILL HERE, TOO, MADONNA!"
"Barf! Barf!" yelped the hateful pet as it trotted alongside its miserable mistress. It seemed just as excited about getting clogged arteries as well.
Neither of them, of course, noticed the ninja nestled nefariously atop their truck.
The ninja which then chose to leap upon the pair as they were padding toward their putrid provisions.
"I'M SAVING YOU, BURGERS! WAIT FOR ME, SPECIAL SAUCE, LETTUCE, CHEESE…AGHH….AUGGHH!"
Lindsay toppled to the concrete floor unceremoniously as Ryu corkscrewed hands-first into her back.
"You can't…my McDonald's…" was all she could manage to stammer.
Ryu said nothing in return, but simply jumped over the woman entirely.
Just when Ross and Tonya thought their opponent would land cleanly behind Lindsay, he grabbed the woman by the shoulders in mid-flight and hurled her head over heels into the closed door to the maintenance storage room. The door creaked open as the old fartette crumpled into unconsciousness.
"BARF! BARF!" protested Lindsay's bitch, tensed and ready to leap at Ryu's throat.
"Sorry, you mongrel, but I'm not Shinobi Shadow Dancer," said Hayabusa as he performed a hand plant into a semi-jump-kick just at the moment that Madonna leapt for him.
The kicked dog hurtled through the air into the maintenance storage—into a barrel filled with inflammable liquid.
BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM
Ryu brought his fists up at the last moment to shield himself from the blast that claimed the canine—
--and thus never saw Ross's fist coming straight for his right shoulder.
Tonya stood nearby, at the ready with another sledgehammer as Ross continued to tear into Ryu's newly gained Achilles's Heel. When she saw her lover punching at zombies from a mere standing position as he, she, and Frank West paced through Wonderland Plaza a couple of days ago, Tonya thought it brave, and at the same time pitiful; his hands weren't exactly having the same effect on the undead as, say, the journalist's microscopic chainsaws.
But now, against the ninja's alive yet ailing shoulder, said fists were finding the most Louisiana of purchases.
"That's…unf…for my girlfriend…and that's…unf…for me!" the man spat furiously as he continued to pummel Ryu mercilessly in his shoulder. The murderous Hayabusa couldn't even turn around at this point.
"And I'm not gonna do one for the old lady and her dog, but…"
"UNGH!"
Ross backed away suddenly as Tonya's sledgehammer clocked Ryu across the noggin, knocking him out. He looked over at her, and she hocked a thick one, which landed right near the ninja's face.
"Take that, Ninja GayMan," she said.
As she then scooped her lover up onto her back and climbed back into the truck, not even bothering to get Lindsay or her poodle, she held back so many tears.
All of this just to get out of a damn shopping mall, she thought. And God knows what's going to happen to the others.
Tonya looked over to her man and managed a smile, which he returned. Then they kissed heartfully.
As they turned the engine of the truck back on to back away from the storage area, they looked at the concrete floor, astonished.
Surrounding the prone forms of Lindsay and Madonna Harris were a scattered smattering of the greenest of leaves.
ENCOUNTER TWO: JEFF, WAYNE, LEROY, AND BILL VERSUS
BASS ARMSTRONG
COLBY'S MOVIELAND ANNEX, SEPTEMBER 22ND, 5:20AM
Nothing but wooden slats and the air spaces in between them could be beheld in Jeff Meyer's field of vision. The middle-aged mallrat had awakened just moments ago, discovering that he was encased in a very tight and compromising position, his head tucked down to his knees inside some kind of small space like a chicken inside of an egg. His limbs were free, and to his apparent luck he could feel his favorite golf club just alongside his left leg. But other than small strips of some kind of artificial light, his world otherwise was naught but a black void.
"Hey…hey…anyone…"
The manly Meyer's range of motion was limited, and though he was not bound, he had the most difficulty just trying to lift his head in his position.
Fortunately, a second later the darkness above him gave way to brilliant shining light, and before he knew it, Jeff was being helped out of his state of near-fetal imprisonment.
Two meaty, scraggly pairs of arms brought Jeff to his feet. An instant later, he found himself facing two men actually larger than himself, if that were possible. The first was a pudgy fellow with an oversized baseball jersey named Wayne Blackwell; the other, a grungy hillbilly-looking sort, dressed to his inbred nines in overalls and a long-flowing beard courtesy of God's providence and deliverance.
"Hello, Jeff," the latter said, extending a sweaty hand towards he who was held captive in a crate just a minute ago. Overalls appeared reasonably affable at first glance—though there was the most sinister of expressions that Jeff could detect behind the other man's eyes as well.
"H-hey," Jeff responded, taking Leroy's hand and releasing it in a summary motion. He looked around and noticed all sorts of orderly racks filled with orange octagonal containers. There were also a few cardboard boxes scattered along the floor near the exit to the place. It looked as if the source of light for the room was emanating from somewhere around the shelf to his right.
Jeff then shot another glance at Wayne, and noticed for the first time that each of the other two had the weirdest of objects in their hands. A gigantic lipstick. A huge faux bottle of perfume, made from cheap plastic. And other unmanly items as well.
He decided to ignore it for a second, however. "Wh-why was I…" Jeff looked back at the box that once held him. Then he looked to Leroy, suspicious. "You didn't…"
Overalls's face widened with a jerky smirk. "ME?! Heck no," he replied, with a nervous chortle as he followed Jeff's gaze to the crate. "What do I look like, some sort of…serial killer?"
"Well, then, who?!..."
The answer did not arrive through words, but rather through a giant yellow and black ball of a man that rolled in out of nowhere. Opposite to the three hefty men, this far heftier human slid into the corner opposite them, like a big blond tumbleweed. Eventually unfurling himself, he stood to face the mall men.
Once thought to be the threat by Jeff, Leroy sprung into immediate, instinctive action to defend the other two…especially Wayne. Dropping his lipstick for a second, he launched himself at the newcomer, brandishing a handbag like a bolo. "S-s-sorry about this, but I can't let you hurt…"
The infinitely larger enemy simply tripped Leroy and threw him to the ground, then lifted up Overalls slightly by his shoulders and got behind his upper torso. With a sick twist, the man-monster cracked some quantity of vertebrae in Leroy's spine, then picked up the poor hick's body and lifted it vertically onto his shoulder. With a hearty grunt, the newcomer executed a brainbuster on Ma McKenna's noble boy, driving the latter man to the ground head first.
The victor proudly spread his arms underhandedly and brought his left foot forward in a stomp of sorts. "Get up and try again, fool!"
"LEE-LEE!!" blubbered Wayne, unable to bear the sight of his lover's hitting the concrete of Colby's Annex so abruptly. Yes, that was correct; Leroy and Wayne were indeed each other's beloved and betrothed. It was no coincidence that the homeless-looking photo hero found each of them in a perfume boutique when they were saved. During the initial undead danger, the two flamboyant fatsos fled subconsciously to the area of the mall they visited the most together, that they cherished the most—the place that reminded each of the other.
And now Leroy lay crumpled on the ground, with literally a broke back…and possibly a broke neck as well. Wayne could withstand no more.
As with Leroy, he put down his cheesy boutique prop and foolishly just bum-rushed his opponent with a flimsy hanger in hand. Perhaps he could hope to get at the behemoth's nostrils with it before he was permanently corporeally rearranged.
"All right, tough guy…I'm gonna take care of…"
The other man just grabbed Wayne by the arm, turned him, and threw him against the opposite wall. As the chubby baseball-clad Blackwell barely came to, his face made personal acquaintance with the human mountain's chest as the latter belly-bumped the former into oblivion.
"Put the pedal to the metal!" screamed the golden giant at the prone Wayne.
"How 'bout I put my putter to you instead?"
Said giant turned…
…just in time to catch a tiny white Titleist right in the left lens of his shades.
As the monster's sunglasses shattered upon the impact, he hunched down into a squat, swirled one arm in the air a few times, and went into a major poser flex with both arms.
"I'm gonna kick your ass!" he exclaimed, doing something between a yell and a bellow. (Given this combination as well as the golden hue of his hair, to say that he "yellowed" would be rather accurate).
A few feet away, Jeff Meyer bravely faced the leviathan alone. "So you're our scheduled opponent, then, I imagine?"
"Bass Armstrong, bucko," huffed the other man as he slowly stood up. "And that shot you just made represents the last time any kind of balls'll be associated with you."
Jeff stood his ground unflinchingly. "And just who do you think you are?"
"Who am I? I'm the next champion of the Hyper Battle Grand Prix, that's who I am. I'm the proud father of none other than Tina Armstrong, the booby…I mean, the beautiful wrestler-cum-rock star-cum Academy Award winner who has the Tecmoverse in the palm of her strong yet dainty hand. I'm…"
"Wait…Tecmoverse?!"
Bass glared at Jeff's askance look. "Yeah, that's right; Tecmoverse. This ALL HERE…" he said, grandiosely waving his arms around the annex, as if to signify Jeff's entire world, "is going to come under the rule of La Colmilla, our mistress…and your world will become…Tecmogrified to suit our leader's needs."
Jeff didn't know what to make of this rhetoric, so he just ignored it. "So you have a lady in your life…your daughter…who's all wild and wonderful, is that right?"
Bass crinkled his brow a second as he came down from his tirade, and looked his still standing opponent square in the eye. "Yeah, that's right."
"Yep…" Jeff started, "….I know all about what that's like. It was the same with my Natalie, many Willamettan moons ago. Boy, I tell ya, she was the loveliest moll this side of Colorado…" Jeff trailed off as he pronounced his home state "Colorada," mesmerized in the memories that flooded to him. "All the other men swung on by and took their shot at her, but she was above all them, with her short hair, shorter skirts, and dynamic figure. God, was she ever so shapely. No man mightier than a Meyer could win that belle's heart, I swear…yeeeeeeppppp, just like your Tina, I suppose. I know it's hard to keep a woman so desirable in line, but, it comes with the territory. I still have to fight off the suitors sometimes, even in my present state of wedlock."
"NO ONE EVEN COMES CLOSE TO MY TINA!!" blurted Bass. "ENOUGH TALK!! IT'S TIME TO…UNGH!"
Bass never managed to finish as his the back of his head unexpectedly met with the faux sheen of a giant pink lipstick, swinging on through.
The blond bear of a man was knocked forward momentarily as Leroy whapped him across the cranium again and again with the object. Another second later, Wayne came to as well, and Jeff looked on in satisfaction as fake perfume container blows joined those of the lipstick prop in a proper rhythm.
"URR…" was all Bass could say as he was being summarily beaten down.
"This is for my lady, Leroy," said Wayne between perfume strikes.
"This is for my woman, Wayne," said Leroy between lipstick hits.
Upon hearing the other's statement, the two survivors looked at one another.
"Wait…I'm the one who wears the pants in this relationship," said Wayne, looking most crossly at Leroy. "You're the one wearing the panties!"
"No, I'm the one that's got the rugged thing going, with the overalls and everything! You're…"
"AAARRARRGH!"
Before Wayne or Leroy could carry on any further with the lover's quarrel, Bass regained his feet and swung his arms left and right, knocking Leroy once again for a loop.
"Lee…"
Wayne could not even finish the first name of his dream lover before Bass turned, lifted a massive foot, and kicked out like the most jacked mule ever. The poor mallgoer flew through the Annex at an unbelievable speed—the whole metric ton of him.
As Bass then expected, Jeff flew at him (as hastily as the flabby man could "fly") with golf club to the fore. The pro wrestler floored the middle-ager effortlessly with a double-legged drop kick that shook the earth at the close of its execution.
The behemoth then stood tall, proud to be the victor once again. "You better eat!" he said to all three combatants. "Eat some meat! …Well, on second thought…" He looked at the bulging bodies of those he just trounced and shook his head in disgust. "…maybe you all should eat…less meat."
"Eat…THIS!"
Upon hearing yet another voice behind him, Bass abruptly turned and responded with a flipping somersault kick that floored his unknown would-be assailant.
"ACK!" yelped the even newer man as he toppled to the floor.
But then he scrambled back to his feet as fast as he fell.
"Are you serious?" the new person asked as he took in Bass, rhetorically of course. To be fair, Bass honestly asked himself the same question as he absorbed the stimuli that defined his new challenge. The man before him was almost as massive; not as tall, but certainly as wide, if not wider, than himself. He also sported trendy headgear and eyewear, with a baseball cap the color of verdant spring and bifocals as vibrant as dear Tina's resplendent smile. And the crimson shirt the man wore reminded Bass of that worn by Linus Van Pelt from Peanuts—if Linus were the Himalayas instead of a human being.
No matter.
Bass would not let himself by rattled. Although he did not know from whence this new combatant had come, it made no difference. The wrestling superstar had come this far; he was going to finish what he had begun.
"I'll fold you like a pancake," he swore, pointing at his adversary. "A big, thick…humongous ass pancake."
The other man failed to scare for a second. He merely looked at his enemy and, gritting his teeth, uttered:
"Not in a million years."
Bass rushed at the new combatant, his arms extended like those of a grizzly bear who just discovered her young in the arms of a predator. The object of his attack simply sidestepped and thereby avoided the man's assault—even though he cut quite a profile even from a lateral view.
As Bass crashed messily into a shelf near the Annex exit, the other man announced: "I swear I'll put you down; I'll knock you off early—or my name's not Bill Brenton."
As said Bill finished his sentence, he took his turn to rush at his opponent, putting his head down and charging not unlike the bulkiest of bulls.
Unfortunately, just as the big red one reached the other bruiser, the latter got to his feet and grabbed the former. Hefting the entire weight of his enemy onto his shoulder (somehow), Bass sprinted forward, running around the end of a shelf and into the main area of the Annex. As soon as the superstar reached the middle of the huge red spread that covered the floor there, he slammed Bill down painfully onto his bottom. Not wasting another second, he then lifted Bill again so that his blubbery mass was contained in a collective armload, then threw him down once more in the most effective of power bombs.
A bit winded, Bass then took a break to stride around the Annex, point around like the poor man's Hulk Hogan that he was, and flex his ass off. Upon regaining some of his strength, he returned to Bill's side to do more damage.
Unbeknownst to Bass, while he was galavanting around, Bill reached inside one of the cardboard boxes that he managed to smuggle into the arena. (Bill had further smuggled himself into the arena via one of the cardboard boxes as well, partially in homage to his favorite hero, a serpentine operative of the solid kind. Although as solid as that hero was, Bill Brenton was the infinitely solider soldier…physically, at least). As Bass stooped to again conquer Bill, the latter whipped a pick axe out of nowhere and drove it down towards his enemy's face.
To Bill's shock, however, Bass dodged the blow, though the tip of the axe did manage to score the enemy's headwear from his scalp. Soon Bass was sans bandana, just as he was bereft of his sunglasses moments before.
And knocking the accessories off of a fighter was an unforgivable offense, as the other mall survivors had learned the hard way.
Without another moment's hesitation, Bass lifted Bill up and, quite roughly, administered another power bomb, then another move that started as a power bomb but then converted into a back breaker as the fighter brought Brenton's spine down upon the top of his head. "That'll teach you to mess with my hair," Bass muttered.
The wrestler then approached Bill's laid-out form and, grabbing a beefy leg, dragged the doomed employee of In the Closet around the floor of the Annex for a few instants, then with one arm hurled the ruby-hued rotundity across the room.
As Bill passed out of consciousness and into defeat, Bass, proudly stood in the center of the Annex, waving both arms and casting both thumbs down. "Crush all comers with our fists! That's how a real man fights!"
MALLGOERS: 1
EVILDOAERS: 1
ENCOUNTER THREE: HEATHER, PAMELA, SOPHIE, AND SID VERSUS HITOMI
WILLAMETTE PARK VIEW MALL SECURITY AREA, SEPTEMBER 22ND, 5:40AM
"Well, I don't want to be the one to fight her!"
"But you're the one who took that…kenpo class or whatever it was last summer, Pams…you could probably take her."
"It was tae-bo. And Heather, you're the one who's been kicking and screaming and shoving since we got here. You fight her."
Outside the front left survivor room, an unreasonably sexually proportioned woman decked out in denims leaned against an opposite wall, a trace of red in each iris that matched the hue of the gloves stretched across her combative yet callus-less fists.
She watched what was going on inside with a semi-hypnotic, semi-dead gaze. Two girls who must have been twins speaking more with their hands than with their mouths; a bald man with glasses trying to interpose himself between the two, his own hands working even more furiously, though his mouth was shut; and a dainty red-haired woman curled in a ball in the corner, trying to block out all the aforementioned noise.
Said bald man Sid Carmack was mute, but he voiced his own concerns by signing to the girls that they should all work together and try to quadruple-team the woman outside. Of course, in his sort-of-panicked state, he didn't have the presence of mind to realize that perhaps neither twin could understand his hand motions. And Sophie, catatonic with fear and dread, was in no shape to translate.
Sid gestured to Heather and Pamela that there were all kinds of routines they could perpetrate against their waiting opponent. Perhaps, for example, he could get on the ground, round himself into a ball kind of like Sophie was doing, except even more fetal, and then his lover could run up and use his back as a springboard to execute some sort of dynamic jump kick or jump knee. Sid got on the ground face down and tucked himself accordingly to show what he meant, pointing at Sophie for a second and then walking the forefingers of one hand across his back to convey the possible attack by his girlfriend.
"What the &#'s he doing?" Heather asked, not knowing what to make of a creepy-looking guy cuddling in the corner by himself, with one hand dancing across his back and the other hand God knows where.
"I think he wants us to see his girlfriend demonstrating something…private with him or something," said Pamela. "This isn't the time or the place…and I don't really like to watch, anyway."
Sid shook his head and clucked his tongue as he looked back over his shoulder at the girls. He quickly got up and approached them, again indicating Sophie and bending towards the Tompkins, slapping his back with his hands, then pointed to the woman outside and drew his elbows straight back and his knee up to demonstrate his plan once more.
"Oh God…he wants to do a ménage with his girl and our opponent," interpreted Pamela. "This isn't that kind of event, Mr. Carmack."
"Are you kidding me?! No way!" Not unlike the jade giantess who once inhabited the survivor chamber next door, Heather had decided that she'd had about enough of this.
Sid slapped both hands to his face in exasperation. Maybe he could explain the second part of his routine to them at least. Perhaps, he began to sign again, if their target ducked out of the way of Sophie's jump kick or jump knee, then Heather and Pamela could join hands and clothesline her right after she dodged. He took each girl's hand to try and link them to demonstrate the clothesline.
"We're not gonna be part of your…pervert orgy," yelped Heather. "Get the frig away from us!" She then walked up to him and delivered a couple of her patented girly shin kicks, which did less than nothing to the man.
The shock of seeing this through crossed arms, however, was too much for Sophie. The young woman brought herself to her feet at last and walked toward the other three.
"He's trying to figure us a way to fight that freak out there! Can't you see that?!" she started, motioning towards the jeans-wearing warrior lurking beyond the grimy glass pane. "He's coming up with more than either of you have, so far…"
"Just go sit down again, you prematurely aged fart," said Heather. She punctuated her words with a hearty shove that sent poor Sophie onto her derriere once more. "We don't need your input."
A survivor of stronger fabric might have picked himself or herself up right at that moment and used Heather Tompkins as a warm-up to fight the real opponent outside. But Sophie was not constructed of such strength, and as such she merely stood again and cried softly to herself. Sid gave up on the other girls and approached his love to comfort her…
Only to find himself sprawling toward the floor as well, another victim of Heather's vicious shoves.
"You two just stay out of our way! We'll figure it out from here." The Juicy-hatted Tompkins turned back to her sister. "Friggin' Dateline predator right there…and his date, with that red toupee of hers."
Heather turned back toward her sister just in time to feel the latter's fingers across her cheek.
"How dare you, Heather?!" Pamela said, unable to tolerate her twin's insolence any longer. "We're all supposed to be a team—and you go around attacking everyone who's on your side. We can't win anything that way."
Being a being of no human fabric whatsoever, Heather then used Pamela—her own flesh and blood, and literally a reflection of herself—as a warm-up to fight the real opponent outside.
"I promise I'll share the credit with all of you when I kick this bitch's ass up and down the security area," Heather said to the other three, glancing behind her at her now-bloodied sister. Pamela crawled towards Sophie and Sid as the survivor door slammed shut.
"Come on…Hi-tomi or whatever your name is," the more base of the Tompkinseseses said as she swaggered forward, pronouncing the other woman's name "High Tommy."
"It's Hitomi," said Hitomi, "and I think you're about to regret alienating your other three teammates. It's a shame, too: that bald guy had a nice plan, with the jump knee and everything."
"Look, whatever-the-hell-your dumb, ugly name is…I don't need any of those fairies. I can kick your ass on my own."
"I sure hope so, 'Juicy,' because I'm here to win!"
"Just shut up, okay?!" Heather then approached her official enemy and again executed her best combo: three girly shin kicks in rapid succession. Hitomi didn't even flinch; she kind of just stood there and looked down at her left pant leg to see if it were at all dirtied. It wasn't.
She then brought both hands over her head and drew them in front of Heather in a ready fighting stance, her left out a foot in front of her right. Heather looked at the configuration of Hitomi's hands and imagined the other woman holding a shotgun in them.
Which was pretty appropriate, because the young girl was about to be blasted off her feet.
As an a propos response to Heather's assault, Hitomi started with some legwork of her own. A quick kick to the girl's chest, another to her stomach, then a spin kick that set Heather aloft on an express flight path from the door to the front right survivor room to the back edge of the rear left survivor area window. Heather's spiteful face rebounded off the glass before her body dribbled to the ground.
She didn't have time to get up or even say anything smarmy as Hitomi then set upon her again, pulling a double sweep kick to the head that kept the Tompkins to the ground for several more moments.
"You see, little girl? One good hit is all it takes." Hitomi stood triumphantly over Heather's prone form. Or maybe in your case, two hits. Or five."
"I can…I can beat you…still…" Heather said rather pathetically as, three minutes later, she managed to pick herself up again.
Her nose interfaced with the soles of both of Hitomi's sneakers as the latter double-jump-kicked the former in the face. "Juicy" was darn right to describe Heather at the moment, as the juices of blood and saliva exploded from her mouth, and other juices involuntarily discharged from her digestive system.
"I've been well trained in karate, you piddling jerk," Hitomi barked, looking down at Heather's dampened short shorts. "You apparently haven't been trained even in potty."
She then picked up her opponent and did a couple of crescent kicks for good measure.
"Here, so that the bald guy's ideas don't totally go to waste, let me show you what he was talking about!"
She then kneed Heather, kicked at her midsection, then axe kicked her down again.
At this point the young teenager, now closer to being "Woozy" Tompkins, started crawling on the floor like the biggest McHandy's coward there ever was. Hitomi stalked after the girl, intending to finish the fight.
Heather huddled against a grouping of cardboard boxes placed under the stairway to the helipad. What could she do? She was about to meet the Man upstairs…or, for her eighteen years of cruelty on this Earth, the Man downstairs probably.
Desperately she clutched at a couple of the boxes to find something, a weapon of opportunity of some sort. She ducked her bleeding head into one container, and was dismayed to find only a cabbage.
Kind of out of her mind from the beating she received anyway, she took the vegetable out of the box and lifted it up towards the hovering Hitomi. As if it would do anything, she said to herself.
It did.
"Ah? My favorite!" cried the fighter as she grabbed the cabbage from the ass-kicked survivor. She brought the food fondly to her chest. "So perfect and round!"
Heather looked up in disbelief through a bloody haze. She didn't even want to ask about it; she just wanted to get away. As Hitomi then began to chew on the cabbage, Heather slithered slowly up the stairs toward the helipad. That was the closest exit, and leaving the battle area would ensure her disqualification and an end to the torture by her opponent.
Just as she was about to reach the door out: "Heather! Wait!"
She painfully craned her near-broken neck around to view the pair of lovers, Sophie and Sid, crouched in a corner around the railing upstairs.
"What…what're you…"
"Come on…we're gonna help you pay that jerk back!" said Sophie, sounding genuinely interested in helping the reprobate Tompkins. "We have some weapons and stuff we found up here…when Hitomi comes into view down there, we'll let fly with what we've got! It should work as long as we do this together!"
"I…" It did sound crazy—though Heather also did want payback. "I…okay."
"Come on, then. We'll wait here for just long enough that Hitomi gets into our sights, okay? Then we'll let her have it."
Convinced, Heather left her momentary place at the helipad doorknob to stagger towards Sophie and Sid. Below, Hitomi was just finishing her anally healthy snack, and was looking around to give Heather the benefit of another beatdown. She was just at the foot of the stairs.
"Guys, I can't thank you enough…" blathered Heather as she neared closer towards the pair, passing the opening to the security area below as she did so. "If there's anything I can do to make this right…"
"NO WAY!"
If there was one thing Sophie was good at, it was voicework, anything to do with voice and language. As if to make up for her lover's lack of speech, over the years she became an accomplished vocalist, ventriloquist, and impersonator. Give Sophie ten minutes of listening to a certain inflection, and she could mimic it exactly.
So you could imagine how adept she was at aping Heather's bleating after several hours of listening to the twin go on and on.
Hitomi's radar gaze shot upward upon hearing Sophie's sudden cry, confident that it was Heather yelling instead. As she bounded up the stairs, ready to dispense some more of her own brand of justice to the Juicy one, Heather glared at the grinning redhead near her, then went back as quickly as she could and crouched near the helipad door.
"Alright, you…" started Hitomi as she reached the top.
"URFFF!"
Heather suddenly popped up and did her best to push her opponent down the stairs. Unfortunately, her target easily guarded against such an obvious assault, brought her hands around the back of Heather's hated head, and drove her knee up into the girl's face. Before Heather could fall down, the Hitster then yanked her off her feet so that she was the one closer to the stairs and checked her hard.
Heather's side plopped against a step, then her rear struck a stair four steps down, then her head connected with another one six steps down. Hitomi looked over at Sid, did the same "drawing elbows back and knee upward" pantomime he did several minutes before, and winked before joining her enemy downstairs.
Sid had to admit that that had more of an arousing effect upon him than everything Sophie had ever done to him, put together.
Upon hitting the ground, the brunette bruiser of Tecmoland picked up the brunette bruised of Willamette, and, with one hand, threw Heather over her head so that she went flying past her now-unconscious sister and into the nearly closed door of the monitor room. Seconds later, Hitomi stepped through the doorway, now made wide open by Heather's airborne form an instant ago, and grabbed the Tompkins once more. The Hitwoman then chucked Heather to the ground yet again, then punched her prone form in the face. It was a good thing that the teen didn't go by "Toothy" Tompkins.
"AAAGH! Hur-ahur-hur-hur-hur…" Heather blubbered as she bubbled blood on the ground, sounding less like herself and more like someone like Sophie, who would make a noise on occasion that could be interpreted as laughing or crying. By now she was on the ground and oozing more liquids than a hulking mutation destroyed with heavy artillery by a S.T.A.R.S. member.
This still wasn't enough for Hitomi. With all the more vigor she brought Heather to her trembling feet once more and escorted her into the vent room, much more roughly than an indigent journalist ever could. With a bit more than a little force she slammed Heather's head into the vent opening, brought the vent lid down on the back of her head, then tossed her against the door that Otis treated with his torch. Before Heather could begin to try to make an effort to turn around, Hits punched her in the back of the head, then kicked her in the back of the head so hard that the door's welding buckled and collapsed. Heather found the exit she so fervently desired as she tumbled out into the security hallway, officially defeated by ring out.
"Thanks for the fight," the victor (or victress, as it were) said as she began to stride back towards the other three combatants, to see if they wanted any, even though the match was done.
She stopped and turned, however, as she caught something in the corner of her eye:
Heather was again propping herself up, one more time.
She shambled ever so slowly towards Hitomi, looking and ambling more dead than the most deceased zombie ever. She hobbled agonizingly over to her opponent and lifted an arm in the air, then brought it down in a chopping motion in front of her to emphasize her frustration.
"OHRRR, YRRROOUU!" she mumble-screamed through a demolished mouth.
Interpreting Heather's hand motion as a karate chop, she stepped back, then did a chop of her own against Heather's fractured chest. She then spun around and punched, then lunge punched, knocking the girl against the window of the monitor room. Sid, Sophie, and a now-awake Pamela congregated in said monitor room just in time to see Hitomi bring Juicy to her feet and deliver a devastating uppercut that drove the Tompkins twin through the window. Even Pamela smiled a bit as her sister settled at her feet.
One rule of the tournament held that a combatant from either side could submit the match just by saying so. This Pamela, Sophie, and Sid did summarily, oblivious to the fact that Hitomi had just won moments ago by ring out. As the DOAer jumped up and down in a victory pose, doing her invented "power-up," the three conscious survivors of Park View applauded.
MALLGOERS: 1
EVILDOAERS: 2
ENCOUNTER FOUR: LEON KENNEDY, CHRIS HINES, RICH ATKINS,
MINDY BAKER, AND MICHELLE FELTZ VERSUS LEON
WILLAMETTE PARK VIEW MALL NORTH PLAZA, SEPTEMBER 22ND, 6:00AM
Since I've been here, Leon Kennedy thought to himself as he loaded his weapons in anticipation for the coming battle, I haven't seen or heard from any of those hounds...or Our Song.
The special agent leaned back against a scaffold support, just a couple of feet away from CD Crazy. He had on his person an okay pistol, a mega shotgun sort of thing, and his trusty combat knife. Just a smattering of the necessary tools of the trade, but it was enough.
For him, at least.
Around him, four others—Willamettans all--hefted their makeshift weaponry at the ready. One guy looked kind of putzy, standing there with his button-down hanging out and holding nothing more than a mere two by four. Atkins, he said he name was…Rich or something. Reminded Leon of one of the ill-fated Bravos back in the Arklay Mountains. He wasn't there, but had heard that this one guy—Aiken, he believed his name was—was good at communications or something or other. Shame, he reflected. Could have used an expert at that here, what with the phone lines down and all.
Ah well.
But speaking of S.T.A.R.S., there was this other guy near him as well…with the same chiseled face and bit of spiky hair that Claire's brother sported, in her picture of him, anyway. Said his name was Chris, too—Chris Hines. Who knows, maybe they were even related. Maybe Atkins and Aiken as well. Probably not.
Chris was sporting even more impressive wood than Rich at the moment, as he held in his paws a considerable length of plywood. Good for swiping at whatever living or maybe unliving thing came their way. Fortunately, Leon did the others the service of clearing out most of the animated deceased with his neat shotgun—the Striker, that's what it's called, it came to him finally. He had utilized so many firearms while in Europe that he couldn't keep all the fancy pants names for them straight.
And as he looked on at the foursome with him, he wished he'd brought a bit more firepower, for all of them…but as it was, he'd only had enough for himself.
It didn't look like any of these schmoes knew how to use a single bit of his hardware anyway.
Leon looked at his watch, wondering where the heck Ada'd gotten off to. She was supposed to be by his side right now…and was supposed to bring Their Song…she even said she'd make it so it piped through the PA system as they fought their opponent.
Leon was here on business, though he arrived with his true love and now his spouse, Ada Wong. After a couple of tumultuous tussles with the undead in the United States and the seemingly-so overseas, the two settled their differences. Then they decided to settle down together. Ada was now even with his child, though from the wedding reception to her recent conception she was still somewhat distant and cold.
They'd had good times, don't get them wrong; how they'd laughed when they'd reached a cantina on the Balearic Islands that played nothing but Journey in the background. They'd heard the same ballads tons of times over, "Open Arms" and things like that…but most notably "Separate Ways." Leon and Ada commemorated the moment by making that Their Song.
Indeed, each of them had gone their separate ways, for far too long. But now that coupling of words, he'd determined, would be only a lyrical fragment, not a reality.
The pair had crashed the tournament only about an hour after it began, once Ingrid had sent an emergency wire to them that someone named "La Colmilla" was threatening a small community in the Rockies. Perhaps, she suggested, this might have something to do with Los Colmillos, the hounds that were the pets of the insidious Ganados cult on the other side of the planet. And if the dogs were there, there was no telling what other components of that crazed cadre there might be in Colorado as well.
But it was no sweat for the agent. He took on a whole village of them—on their turf. Surely he could defend his homeland, where they would be out of their element. When it came to fighting Ganados, Leon Kennedy was surely no perdedor.
Ahh, Ingrid, though. How she got her hands on information so quickly—and especially when communication lines were supposedly down—was beyond him.
And how she maintained such a perfect figure had escaped his comprehension even further.
Leon looked over at the Haitian woman nearby—Michelle Feltz, her name was, she said—wearing the loud purples and pinks and wielding a simple steel bucket. She sort of reminded him of Ingrid for some reason. Made him recall how, before crossing paths with Ada in Europe, he did "not have sexual relations with" that sultry President's liaison. Hmm…he thought, long and hard, as he looked absently at the outline of Michelle, imagining his sexy contact instead. She was sweet…sweet as honey…sort of like her last name. Maybe while Ada was a bit more…incapacitated with their little bundle of joy, he could tap into some of Ingrid's Honey Again.
And then, last but most certainly not least, stood a pleasant, delectable blonde right in front of the music place. Melinda Baker…Mindy, she called herself. Commensurate with her surname, she was laden only with a long baguette. Leon's mind slipped into free association as his thoughts ran rampant. A beautiful blonde…just like Ashley…Ashley Graham, the President's pride and joy…Baker Bake a Graham cracker all sweetened with Honey…Ingrid…Honey…Again…
CRACK CRACK
Leon's head snapped up from his dreamy reverie as he heard his team's opponent crack his knuckles. He stood at the ready—at least a bit more so—as his enemy emerged. A rugged-looking nomad, it seemed, decked out in desert military-esque togs and a turban. What a crude-looking crumb he is, Leon thought to himself. Certainly nothing like my clean-cut special agent image. Probably just some backwoods hick, the roughneck bum…probably has some sloppy fighting style, and an idiotic name like Buford…or Dale…or…
"Leon," the other man said, uttering nothing more than that singular syllable at first. The special agent snapped onto his feet.
"How…how did you know my…"
"No, I'm telling you all my name," the opponent finished, "just so you'll all know the identity of the professional who put you down into the ground."
This made the Kennedy Leon start. "And just who do you think you are?"
"I?" said the opposite Leon. "I am nothing more than a wanderer of the world…a sentinel of the sand dunes…a saddler of steeds who course along caravansaries."
"And I eat Saddlers for breakfast," replied the first Leon.
Unhesitatingly, he whipped out his Blacktail pistol and aimed the laser sight right at the center of his adversary's turban. Before he could follow through, however, the second Leon ducked down and delivered two quick sweep kicks, flooring the first Leon and launching the gun from his hand. Just as Kennedy reached his feet once more, his face became acquainted with the advancing knees of the supposed "backwoods" brawler.
"I'm sick and tired of your face..." said said brawler Leon, "already…and it's only been about a minute."
He went forward to attack Kennedy once more as the latter's mind was spinning from the assault. Oh, how he wished he could be in Ada's arms right now—who was he kidding, with that Graham crackers and Honey thing. Ada, who argued with him over what their child's name should be. He wanted a little girl, and she a boy; he was going to name her after them both, calling her, simply enough, "Leonada," or "Adaleon." Ada, on the other hand, prayed it would be a boy, thinking both of her husband's suggested handles to be pretty stupid: the first sounded too much like "Lemonade," she told him, and the second sounded like a concubine of Kratos in an intercourse minigame.
Whatever the hell that meant.
But now was not the time to think of Ada, or Ashley, or Ingrid, or any of his other libidinal longings. He just had to get his mind off of carnal pleasures, if he were to survive this conflict.
Fortunately, before the non-Ada-wed Leon could complete his assault upon the other, he was literally swept off his feet by Chris Hines's plywood panel. As the opponent toppled onto his turban, Rich abruptly dodged Chris's wild swing.
"Watch your stroke with your wood," he spat at the other survivor.
"I know, I know…sorry. My grip on this is a bit sticky and slippery…I'm rubbing my hands all over it, and it's hard."
Such discourse was not helping Leon Kennedy focus.
"Let me whip out my wood for a second, alright?"
"Okay, Rich…do this whore proud."
And do Rich did, as his two-by-four swung and struck the prone wandering Leon across the head a couple of times. Had he been able to continue, he might have succeeded in defeating his opponent in a few more seconds. As it was, however, his weapon was ready to give in only another couple of strikes.
And speaking of strikes, Rich didn't even have a second to break his stick over the enemy Leon's head, as alleged "friend" Leon took out his striker and aimed at their opponent. The sight of the firearm caused Rich to desist and leap away. To Kennedy's dismay, leaping away was also what the other Leon did, with lightning reflexes.
And then, before the agent could fire off another salvo, his nemesis followed up his reflexes with a suplex that whisked the former Raccoon cop off his feet and the Striker away from his hands.
"My blood lust is wasted on you," muttered the desert drone as he waited for Kennedy to regain his feet, only to send him floored again with a downward punch, then an uppercut. Kennedy had sufficient seconds to reach his combat knife and palm it, only to be flattened once more by the advancing rising kicks of the Leon who was, between them, the real fighter.
The real contender.
The real man?
That was what Ada seemed to convey, when she announced proudly that their child would be a boy, and that she would, to his abject chagrin, name him after her first love…John. It was a blow to him, something fierce…but what bothered him more than the fact that the collective product of their loins (it was his loins involved in this…wasn't it?) would be named after another man of Ada's, was the idea that the treasure of the GOP-phile Leon's life would be named John Kennedy.
Said Leon struggled to keep his wits and his sexual lust in check, just as the Leon facing him was seething with his own blood lust. This man is really good, he thought. Disciplined and on task, just like a warrior should be. Probably not preoccupied with a skirt…or skirts, as it were…like I am.
But it was the truth, unbeknownst to that Leon, that this desert-faring Leon shared more than just a first name with him. He also harbored longings for the fairer gender within him…and one woman, on whom he was fixated in particular, swept through his mind as he fought.
Rolande…
The woman of his dreams, and of his reality, so many ages ago, it seemed. The one who kept him going through all of the doom and the dunes in his life…the oases and the ordeals he faced. He had a few charms for luck on his person when he fought, but the one he cherished the most was simply a small cloth with her name embroidered upon it, her very own handiwork, something so pleasant to remember her by.
This cloth spilled out of his togs while he was axe kicking Kennedy into the wall once more, and its fabric caught the corner of his eye as he was ready to put the finishing touches on his target.
"Ahh…Rolande…Are you watching, Rolande?" he asked gently as he ceased his attack momentarily to gaze upon the dropped cloth.
Nearby, Rich, Mindy, and Chris, too terrified to fight the hulking menace upon seeing him pummel the special agent, looked down upon the cloth as well…seeing the tangible link between the living Leon and his lost love…the stitching that bore her name…
…and the apparent collective illiteracy of the two separated amours, as the cloth plainly spelled out "RONALDE."
"Ronalde?" Mindy said incredulously, cupping her hand to her mouth as she suppressed her formerly aghast gawking with newfound glee.
"No, no, it says 'Rolande'…"
"No, it doesn't; it says 'Ronalde!'" Chris shot back. "Sounds as if you have a thing for him, the fat jackass!"
"What are you talking…"
"Dude, you like, like, a fat kid?" offered Rich, by now his sides aching more than Aiken's ever did before he died. "Good thing, I don't think he's spoken for…unless you count his passion for Seon and his entire supermarket!"
"Don't be a smart ass!" cried the once-formidable nomadic Leon as he took a step towards the survivors. "I…UNGH!"
He then slobbered to the floor as Michelle's bucket glanced off his skull. Sure enough, the furtive Feltz had stealthily snuck atop the scaffold while the melee, then momentary merriment, had ensued.
"Did I get him! I did! I got him!" she yelped as she hopped around with satisfaction for a second. As the turbaned Leon shook his head to regain his senses, Mindy ran to the other Leon and proffered her baguette.
"Here, Agent Kennedy…eat this," she said quickly. "It's no first-aid aerosol like I know you Raccoonites might be used to…but it does the trick pretty well."
Nodding painfully, Leon lifted the bread to his lips and downed it in about three bites. He placed his hand on Mindy's shoulder for support a second, then rose again to his feet. The combat knife was still on him; unlike his guns, he didn't lose it when he was assailed last.
"Leon…" he grunted gutturally as he stepped forward with the weapon, poised to bring it down upon his enemy. He never thought he'd kill another with the same name as his own.
Unfortunately, this grunt betrayed him as the target Leon then realized where his enemy was, and responded accordingly with a surprising spin backhand that sent Kennedy yet again against the scaffold. Before the agent could descend to the floor once more, his opponent lifted him off his feet in a nasty chokehold.
"Prepare to die," the enemy Leon grumbled generically as he tightened his grip. All around him, Kennedy heard the cries of the others as they attacked the enemy with all they had, with none of the assaults finding any purchase. Michelle had returned to the floor and was whapping the man with a stepladder, but the bad Leon held fast his grip. Rich whipped out a nail gun and fired—but it really ended up misfiring and striking Michelle instead.
"RICH! YOU JUST NAILED MICHELLE!" screamed Chris.
"I DIDN'T MEAN TO NAIL MICHELLE!" yelled Rich back.
"PUT THAT DOWN BEFORE YOU NAIL MINDY, TOO!"
So much for not thinking about sexual stuff…Leon Kennedy thought whimsically as he began he lose consciousness.
Ada…it was really you that I loved…someday…someday I'll see you again…someday…
Someday, love will find you…
Break those, chains that bind you…
One night, will remind you…
He swore he could hear his and his love's song as everything started to go black. But it was probably just his dying memory playing tricks on him.
"HOW WE TOUCHED AND WENT OUR SEPARATE WAYS…"
No.
It wasn't.
"LEON!"
Both Leons looked up as they viewed another female figure on the scaffold.
But this was no bucket-buffeting black babe.
It was none other than Leon's lady…Ada Wong.
"LEON, CATCH!"
His strength renewed at hearing his true love's voice, Leon looked up and reached for the long black object heading towards his head. He felt invigorated as his fingers gripped something familiar…a machine gun…more potent and than any automatic than he'd ever wielded…
…and yet it was just termed a "typewriter."
Leon Kennedy nonetheless took the weapon, aimed at the other Leon's chest, and typewrote his ass just before his opponent could end his life—and just as Steve Perry ended the chorus to Their Song, which played over the PA system.
"Leon, Leon…" Ada crooned as she hopped off the scaffold and approached her husband. The opponent Leon was on the floor and out for the count. "I managed to get here just in time, I assume."
"Y-yeah," Leon managed, about fifteen minutes later, when a couple of orange juices from Seon's helped him find his voice in his previously strangled throat.
Ada failed to apologize, as it was just like Ada, and continued, "I was away because I was thinking for a while…thinking of the name for our boy. It's not right, you know?"
Leon managed a smile through his agony-wracked face.
"I found another name that's good…even better…something that really completes him."
"R-really?" whispered Leon hoarsely.
"Yes, my love," she said. "A name so noble, reflective of a man with such valor and temerity."
Leon looked down for a second, blushing…expecting the words "Leon Kennedy, Jr." to spill from his woman's mouth.
She slapped her hands to her hips, smiled, and said, simply, "Frank!"
"Wh…wha?"
"Frank, Leon! This photojournalist…he helped and saved all these people here. Possibly the only guy who could measure up to John…and, well, you I guess…Frank West. And by 'another name' I meant middle name, it's a perfect middle name…so we'll name our son John Francis Kennedy!"
Well, at least she didn't say "Fitzgerald," thought the Republican Leon as he leaned his head back against the support nearby.
As Ada helped her spouse to his feet, Leon thought groggily of several women once more, thought of perhaps writing Ingrid, or writing Ashley at some point.
Or typewriting Ada.
MALLGOERS: 2
EVILDOAERS: 2