Summary: A man tries to survive the horrors of an Umbrella lab. The only problem is, he only has ten bullets left in his gun. Can he survive? Or is he doomed to become one of the living dead?


A/N: Before you start reading this, I'd like to say something. This fic is nothing more than a short story, or more typically referred to as a one-shot. I had written just a tiny portion of this fic a couple weeks ago, but the idea wouldn't leave my mind, so I wrote it all out. This is the result. It is my particular hope that I will add more chapters to this fic, but none of them will deal with the characters or scenario in this part. The main idea is to put together a collection of one-shots (or short stories, if you prefer.) that all deal with the Resident Evil universe together into one massive fic. It is my hope that each of these stories may bring something new to the table, and I will definitely be experimenting with my writing style a lot more in these short stories. So please, sit back, relax, and enjoy my story (or stories). Don't forget to leave a review. I'm always anxious to hear what people think and ways I can improve.

One last thing (just a small disclaimer), I hope I don't have to point out that I don't own Resident Evil or any of its characters/ creations. Nor do I own any other brand names I use. I'm just a humble man with a computer.

So here it is, the first story of what I hope will be many...

Ten Bullets…

He lay on the fleeting edge of consciousness. His ass was planted on the ground and his body was leaning weakly against a wall. Opposite from him, right in his field of vision, was a metal door. It was electronically opened, meaning it should slide open when someone pressed the button, but it was going to do no more sliding. David had made sure of that.

To the left of the door, at about waist level, was a keypad. It was covered in blood, David's blood.

My blood, he thought with sad humor. He gave a small, desolate chuckle, but it soon turned into a ragged cough that shook his whole body with spasms.

He wore a dirty, blood stained lab coat. Emblazoned on the left breast was the insignia of his company, of his destroyer. There was a wound in his left shoulder, deep and certainly life threatening. Glistening bone and wet muscles exposed themselves in the crater of his shoulder, and there was plenty of blood to go with it. It dripped down his whole arm and formed a puddle on the floor. It was in his unkempt hair as well, a result from him anxiously putting his hands through his hair.

The door began to shake, and he could hear the moans that came from the other side of that sheet of metal. How long would it hold them? He didn't know, nor did he care. His time was almost up, and there was nothing he could do. The room he had locked himself in had only one entry point. When the door guarding that way in came down, he would be dead. No doubt about that. That only brought him back to the original question: how long would it hold them?

"Not long enough," he spat out harshly. His voice was weak and cracked. He wished for a drink of water. He didn't like sounding like this. It made him realize just how weak and vulnerable he was, made him realize how human he was. He had spent nearly fifteen years thinking he was better than being human somehow. Fifteen years of thinking he was better than everyone else.

How wrong he had been.

He thought of the ironic justice and began laughing again, oblivious of the pounding at the door. His mind began to drift towards unconsciousness, but he managed to pull himself back. He couldn't allow himself to fall asleep a time like this. It would be suicide.

Yet his mind did drift. It moved to a place that seemed like a dream inside a dream, and his mind flooded with images of the past. Everything that had happened lately came back to him, and David found himself reliving the nightmare.

Ten bullets…that was all that was left. He had spent a whole fucking six hours in this nightmare, and this is what it all came down to: ten bullets and hundreds of undead and B.O.W.S. In a sense of all words, David was screwed.

He ran through the hallway, knowing what was behind him, but not daring to look back. He had to keep his eyes forward. His eyes on the prize, so to speak. The hallway ended abruptly and he turned left quickly. His loafer clad feet slipped out from underneath him as he tried to make the prompt turn and he went rolling across the floor and into the wall.

All the wind in his body was knocked out and stars danced across his field of vision, seeming to taunt him in his distress. He moaned softly in pain, and another answered him. This moan was empty, loud, and close.

He opened his eyes groggily. At first, he saw nothing but swirls of color and movement, but moments later his vision refocused. What he saw was a woman wearing the same lab coat as himself, but she was in a much worse state than he. Her right arm hung loosely to her side, covered in blood. It was only held to her shoulder by a thin, grisly strand of flesh.

"Karen?" He asked in a weak voice. He recognized her easily, just as he recognized a lot of his assailants.

Yes, it was her. He could tell by the curly, black hair and that necklace she always wore, the one with that large green stone set in the middle. This was Karen, the same woman who he had seen around the labs, the same woman who had eaten lunch with him on more than a few occasions. Except, that woman was no longer here. He knew that from those ashen, listless eyes. The Karen of old had been replaced by this mockery of her human nature, the one with the empty eyes.

He rolled to his side as fast as his weakened body could manage and stood up. She was close now, close enough he could see the individual specks of blood that stained her coat. He lifted the handgun in his hand and pointed it at her impassive face.

"It's what you would have wanted," he whispered quietly to himself as he pulled the trigger. Karen's body gave a quick jolt then fell to the ground. The arm, which had hung so loosely before, fell off from the impact, making a wet splat noise as it connected with the white tile.

At that sound, David's stomach turned in on itself, and the result was almost instantaneous. There was another wet splat as his stomach's contents fell to the ground in a steaming pile. He wiped his mouth off and managed a look back at the stark hallway behind him. He saw no one, but he knew they were getting closer. Their perseverance was unmatched and they would probably chase him through the whole facility. Oh well, as long as he stayed ahead of them, he had nothing to worry about.

Shadows danced across the hallway for a moment, the shadows of people shuffling slowly. No, they're not people, he thought. Not anymore. That was when he decided to take his leave, moving forward, listening to the moans behind him.

Nine bullets, he reminded himself. Nine more bullets.

He tried to move faster, but that fall had taken more out of him than he had thought. One of his ankles now seemed swollen, sprained no doubt. He went as fast as he could, limping slightly on his damaged joint. It only hurt a little, and later (there would be a later as far as David was concerned) he would ice it and it would be just fine. He would just have to be more careful next time. Next time, he might not get off with a sprained ankle.

Ahead of him, screams echoed off the empty hallway. They were horrible screams filled with pain and torture. It sounded like whoever was screaming was having their soul ripped from their chest. With everything that he had seen today, David could believe it.

He passed a door, and he briefly looked into it, wishing he hadn't. In this room was the source of all the screams. He saw a man pinned on one of the counters; the beakers that had been on it previously lay shattered on the ground. A bald man and a younger woman held him down and feasted on his open stomach, stuffing his entrails greedily into their mouths. The man screamed in pain and agony, and he kicked his feet in an effort to free himself. It was useless. He screamed in more pain as one of the zombies ripped out a long, gore drenched organ that from a distance looked like a rubber hose. David could see the tears on the poor man's face.

"HELP ME!" the man yelled hysterically, kicking his feet wildly and buckling in an effort to free himself. David only set his eyes to the floor, not wanting to see the look of despair in that poor man's eyes as he walked past the open doorway. He would have liked to help him by putting two bullets in his attackers than one extra in the poor man's head, just to end his pain, but he didn't have the resources to do such an act. He only had…

Nine bullets. Nine little bullets. The words repeated themselves in his head, forming a mantra. The chant managed to block out the forsaken man's screams.

"NOOO!" the man yelled, but David didn't hear him. He was far too busy humming his little tune, trying to separate his mind from the horrors it was actually experiencing.

It didn't take long for the screams to end. David thought he heard some thick, choking sobs before they stopped, but he wasn't for sure. What he was sure of though was that Mr. Screamer was no more.

But he'll be back, David thought. Even death isn't enough to stop this damn virus.

He turned the corner, and came across one of the BOWS, the Hunter 121 MA, also known as the Alpha. David knew from his research that the creature's normally preferred to stay together in packs, so where were the rest of them? At this point in time, he didn't care. All that mattered was there was a creature that never should have been that wanted to eat him alive.

It stared at him with its reptilian eyes, and David stared back. His eyes absorbed every detail of the creature's being— the shimmering scales, the blood soaked teeth, and even the thick claws that dripped dark droplets of crimson to the floor. In this white hallway, the creature looked as if it had spawned from the very depths of Hell itself. But David knew better. Hadn't he been one of the lead researchers on such a creature? A carpenter should be able to recognize his own handiwork.

He had no idea how long both of them stared at each other, but eventually the creature leapt into the air, descending down upon him with its sharp claws. He lifted the gun up and fired, counting the bullets as he did so. One, two, three, four, five, six. The creature shrieked with fury and pain before falling limp. The body of the demon fell to the ground in a heap, spraying blood in thick streams onto the walls and floor. Bullet holes riddled its chest and some had even managed to damage its face.

He stopped, despite the panic filled voice in his head that was screaming at him to keep moving. He looked down at the creature he had just slain with a mixture of fear and wonder.

I'm responsible for this, he thought with realization. This is what I was working on the whole time. Creating monsters for money. Nice trade-off. It's my fault this baleful monster exists in the first place. I should have never played God. Never.

He thought about all the sleepless nights he had spent trying to make a creature like this. Had he really spent such time creating such a diabolical thing? It was hard to remember, but he thought the answer was yes. Yes, he had created this abomination.

Anger swelled in the pit of his stomach. How could he have been so stupid? He gave the corpse a swift kick in the chest before walking over it, proceeding on his journey.

He had a mission to complete, and one Hunter wouldn't stop him. His goal was simple: get outside of the facility and warn everyone topside about the evils of Umbrella. It was a noble cause, one he should have pursued earlier, but he had been blinded by greed and power then. He had never realized how evil all of the creations were, how truly demented and sinister. Before, he had seen them as only one thing: money. That was wrong, and he didn't know what was more evil and sinister, the creations or the creator.

He looked down to the gun in his right hand.

Three bullets, he said to himself.

Things were starting to seem much more dismal. Three bullets, and he still hadn't even gotten to the main floor of the complex. Hope was passing him like a delicate, beautiful butterfly and he didn't have the net to catch it.

Still, he went on. What else was he supposed to do?

"Three bullets. Three bullets left," David sang in a singsong voice. "Three bullets. Three bullets left." His voice echoed off the walls in the desolate halls.

Ahead of him, a door was shaking in its hinges. No doubt from a captive carrier seeking freedom. He had no choice but to move past it. The moans behind him were getting closer and there was no other hallway to take.

The door shook, letting loose a loud BANG! every time it reverberated off its hinges.

Please hold on, he urged the door. Don't let that thing out until I pass it. Please. Please!

He was closer now, much closer. The door still hadn't broken down. The BANGS! got louder and louder with every step he took. He was almost to it now. He was close enough to smell the zombie inside the room. It was hard to mistake that God-forsaken scent for anything but the living dead.

This is it, he thought as he approached it. Now or never. He moved past it, trying to put as much distance between him and the door as he possibly could. Unfortunately, it was to no use. The door exploded open from the force behind it, and coming out of the room was what David had known was there all along: a zombie. It grabbed hold of him and sunk its teeth deep within his shoulder.

He screamed in pain and tried to throw the zombie off of him, but he was too weak and the zombie was far too strong. Damned research, making these things stronger than they ever should have been. His only choice was to bring his gun up to the creature's head and pull the trigger. Blood and gore sprayed across his face as the creature's head exploded like a rotten melon. Its grubby hands still gripped his shoulders, and with a disgusted grimace, he threw them off.

Two bullets. Two bullets left.

This abhorred truth seemed to speak to him from every angle of the hallway. It was like a great booming voice coming down from Heaven, reminding him of his failure, reminding him he had only two bullets left, and that he was infected. He was as good as dead.

Yes, he was as good as dead; he was infected. His arm hung loosely down to the ground, and he supported it with his other hand. Trying to fight the pain and hysteria, he walked down the hall slowly. If he could have seen himself he would have remarked the alarming similarities between him and one that had already succumbed to the sickness of the virus.

It's over now, he thought with tears stinging his eyes. I'm infected, and I'll turn. There's no denying that.

Behind him, the moans grew louder. The carriers were getting closer now, and they would only get closer. David had been injured and now they would catch up to him.

He turned a corner and came to a dead end. Nowhere left to go but one door. He approached it and pressed the button to open it. It slid open with a slight whoosh and he walked into it without hesitation. The door slid shut behind him, and he punched in the lockdown code with trembling fingers. His clumsy, bloody fingers messed up the code on two occasions, but he managed to calm himself down enough to punch it in on the third time.

"Third time's the charm," he whispered softly. And in truth, it was. Fists had begun slamming into the metal as soon as the correct code had been entered.

He heard another moan behind him, but it didn't startle him. Nothing could scare him now. He had nothing to lose now. All hope had been lost, leaving David empty and alone.

The zombie reached for him with its snow colored hands, but fell to the ground after a bullet entered its brain. Before the corpse could touch the ground, he was walking across the room on legs that felt like water. It almost felt like he wasn't walking, but rather swimming. Yes, he was swimming, just like he loved to do every summer at the lake when he was a kid. Thoughts of the cool water and the sun reflecting playfully of its surface managed to bring a smile to his face. The memory was a spark of light that illuminated this hell, making everything seem all right, making the pain he felt a distant memory. He collapsed against the wall and closed his eyes in an effort at peace.

David's eyes snapped open, snapping him out of his trance. Had he fallen asleep? He didn't think so, but he had no way of knowing. Reality had been bent in so many ways in the past ten minutes (or was it more like an hour?). Much like the way a child would mold silly putty, bending and contorting it till it fit their purpose. He couldn't even remember what he had been thinking of, but the image of water came to his mind.

Strange, somehow it was reassuring.

He looked down to his right at the handgun that was still clenched in his white hands.

"One bullet. One bullet left," he sang quietly, voice cracking with the effort.

He picked it up and felt its weight. It was heavier than he remembered, but its steel touch provided some comfort, provided an answer.

The pounding on the door grew louder, and he could see that the door's body was bent and twisted— like child's silly putty— from the abuse it was taking. Wouldn't be long now.

But you can speed things up, he thought.

Wasn't that the only way? He didn't have long before he would turn— he knew that. He had all the symptoms— deep itch in the infected area, dizziness, and worst of all, extreme hunger. In no time he would be like the others he had shut out of the room. He would be a zombie. In his mind, there was no other alternative. If he were to die, he would die in his own damn way! He would die as a human.

He raised the handgun to his temple, feeling its touch against his temple.

This isn't so bad, he thought optimistically. It's like holding the hand of your lover. It's like hugging your father when you're a child. It's comfort. It's knowing that everything is going to be okay.

"One bullet," he sang in a whisper. "One bullet left."

For the second time, his mind traveled to another place, to another when. However, it wasn't the hell he had just been experiencing; this thought was much more peaceful, much more relaxing.

He was a kid again, and he was wearing his bright blue swimming trunks. He was running down a hill, a hill full of flowers. There were beautiful violet flowers and pure white flowers that he didn't know the names of, but it didn't matter. He was young and they were beautiful. That was all that was important. He passed the flowers, smelling their sweet aroma, nearly tasting it. He laughed joyfully as he looked down to the water's surface, bright and shimmering. The water looked cool, pleasant and inviting, but it was always like that. After all, it was summer and he was young.

He was young again.

He came to a dock, just painted over in a stunning white. He looked down to the water, waiting to plunge into the water and feel its cool touch on his sweat-drenched skin. He would jump on ten.

(He would pull the trigger on ten.)

"One…"David spoke slowly, his inner child echoing his voice with its childlike innocence. "Two…three…four…five…six…seven…eight…nine…"

The older David's finger tensed around the trigger and the child took a deep breath.

"Ten."

Then they were gone, plunged into the refreshing blue waters.