Sirens shrieked through the hallowed streets like so many crying children.
The red and blue cascaded around the buildings in frightful patterns as the
cruisers careened towards their destination. Alan's hands were sweaty as he
clenched his submachine gun tight. The safety was on, but he knew it would
soon be off. The rioting was too much to handle already. People had died.
It was time for the RPD to make a move.
He looked around the back of the van, across to Sgt. Arbour. The good Sergeant's chin was dotted with graying stubble, a grim expression of foreboding on his face. He peered at Alan through his dark sunglasses. Alan knew he was old, at least 25 years in the RPD service. Head of the S.W.A.T. sniper group and the best shot in Raccoon. At least, at the range.
Alan was the spotter - the second half of a two-man sniper team. He watched the sniper's back, scoped out targets, and gave him essential information on distance, wind, and threat recognition. Arbour would be all but useless without his help.
Alan heard the voice crackle over his headset. "Westbound on 22nd avenue, towards Raccoon Hospital intersection. ETA is one minute."
The back of the van was dim. Alan could barely discern his comrades. Goosebumps broke on his flesh, a deep tingling sensation. Maybe it was the chill of the van, or the adrenaline of pending combat.
The foremost RPD cruisers, including S.T.A.R.S. unit 184, swerved up to the middle of the street and formed an angled roadblock. The vans of S.W.A.T. followed, officers jumping out from the back even as it came to a complete stop.
"Go!" The officer at the doors pushed them open and more officers jumped out. All were armed to the teeth, and they knew the gravity of the situation. The… "rioters" had to be stopped, with either a show of force, or a bullet to the head.
Sgt. Arbour was out and running before Alan could stand, rifle in hand. "Haul ass, Constable!!" As Alan hustled out, the looked towards the foremost RPD units, stepping out of their cars and facing the mob sternly. Each of the RPD had a weapon, and Alan prayed they had the guts to use them. Arbour hurled himself towards the apartment building across the street. Many of the civilians around had locked themselves into their homes, sitting in the corner with a ba, Alan assumed.
The doors were pushed aside and Arbour moved straight for the express stairs at the end of the dark hallway, Alan on his heels. They clambered up the musty staircase as fast as they could, heading for the roof. Alan's heart hammered in his chest, pounding in his head. His MP510A2 would soon become his best friend.
The weapon was sleek, like a greyhound. 10mm, specially chambered rounds, a subgun developed by Heckler + Koch for those who needed a little extra bang for their buck. It had been ordered by him as soon as he had made the sniper unit of the RPD. It packed thirty rounds of hollowpoint 10mm rounds, and a tightly set tritium-illuminated telescopic sight for low-light targeting, calibrated for maximum target engagement distance 65 yards.
They reached the top of the stairs together, pushing the door open and running to the side. Arbour rested his bipod on the cement rail, looking out over the mob.
"I can see them… they're coming this way…"
"Hold your fire. Don't shoot until I say."
"Where- where did they all come from?"
"Keep it together!!"
Alan closed his left eye and peered through his scope, surveying the area. There were news crews, ambulances sweeping past, fire trucks… a city-wide emergency. He could see flames in the distance, burning cars… many accidents had been reported since the evening, not to mention the prowlers, lost contact with patrolling officers, murders, attacks in the streets. The smell was unlike anything he'd smelled before… of sweat, blood, smoke, all at the same time. It had infested him, his clothes, and everything around him. He wasn't even sure he was alive anymore, the smell was so unearthly.
Down the street, Alan could see them. The mob. Most of them walked almost drunkenly swaying limbs and looking around. Alan couldn't pick out faces, but many of them bore distinctive bloodstains on their clothes. "What do you make of it, Constable? What are they on?" Arbour hissed from behind his rifle.
"I… don't know… some new hallucinogen or mentally-altering drug… hopped up after a rave, or… but this is the result of that cannibal disease thing, right?"
"You think they're all infected, huh?" Arbour was steady, in voice and body, unbelievably. Alan prayed Arbour's iron constitution would hold up if the shooting started. "I don't buy it," Arbour paused for a moment, "Don't just sit there, give me some readings!"
"Uhh… winds coming from the northwest, about 6 miles. Looks like the closest target is about 100 yards away… about 12 degrees down." Alan continued searching, and found something he had been looking for since he had set up - bodies. "Sergeant, we got bodies. Two of them, laying in the middle of the street. They're surrounded by the mob… check up a few degrees, to the left side."
"Shit…" Arbour tipped his headset mike to his lips. "We got bodies. Two of them." The reply was muffled by the earphone. "No, can't see any weapons. Yet."
A few seconds later, there was a call out over the megaphone. "Lay down, hands on top of your heads! All of you!"
The crowd did not respond.
"If you do not comply, we will resort to more forceful measures. Stop your advance."
They kept coming. Alan couldn't see the end of them, the street stretched on, and the streetlights highlights groups of them every twenty feet or so. "What the hell is going on?" Alan whispered to himself. The mod was 75 yards away now. Arbour bristled behind his rifle. "Target."
That meant he had one in his sights. "I'm tracking him, I won't trap him yet." That meant he would follow the man's advance, but not shoot until the order was giving. "Trapping" was a tactic used by snipers when hitting a moving target. The sniper would set his crosshairs a few meters ahead of the target, and when the target moved into his scope, he would fire.
The mob was 65 yards away now. Alan rested his 10A2 on his forearm and put his crosshairs towards the crowd.
"Gas 'em!"
There was a shoonk as the canisters of tear gas flew from the launchers and rattled to the streets, spewing fumes into the air. It engulfed the crowd in furious clouds of white, completely obscuring them.
That's when Alan began to hear the moaning. Not the sounds of humans in pain, no… the sound was too guttural, too throaty, too animal. It reminded Alan or old horror movies, a monstrous entity only crafted in twisted minds. Alan was too hesitant to even think it's name.
Standard police operation called for strict fire discipline unless there was somebody in immediate physical danger. The bodies had pretty much sealed that for Alan, but the word would have to come from the leader.
Abruptly, a paunchy man in a white apron and red shirt came flying out his shop door and into the street. Civilian, no visible threat -
"You! Freeze!!"
The man turned to face the RPD - and the rioters came stumbling out from behind the smokescreen, arms grasping and mouths working. One tackled him to the the asphalt, holding him down, and -
"What the fuck?! He's eating him!" One of the RPD shouted. The man began to shriek, a chilling yell of fear and pain. Others of the mob fell on him, blocking the RPD's view.
"The gas had no effect!!"
"My God, what are they doing to him?!"
"Fire! Now!"
"They have no weapons - "
"They're killing that man! FIRE!!"
The first bullet to fly was Sgt. Arbour's. The 7.62mm FMJ sliced through the air and into the upper cranium of one of the mob, dropping him to the road. Blood sprayed from the wound as the man squirmed for a moment, then stopped. A hail of gunfire spattered the mob with rounds, taking them down in twos, threes, fours. The officers continued the firing into the mob, a brutal display of what would normally be termed a horrid act of misjustice. They didn't even have weapons… and yet, they saw them kill a man right there, in front of them.
Alan flicked his selector to single-shot and started lining up his crosshairs on one of them. His fingers felt alien, as if they weren't moving of his own accord. The trigger was pulled, and the 10mm shot whistled through the air and wetly smacked into the throat of one of the mob. Alan watched him fall as the round cut a chunk out of his throat, twitching, his mouth opening and gasping at the air. His crosshairs remained upon the body as it convulsed, watching. The man turned over, and pushed himself up.
"What the - how could he be alive?"
Arbour turned to face Alan. "What?!"
"I shot one right in the throat, and he's getting back up!!"
"My God, they are… I hit one in the heart, and he was down… right there! Where did he go?!" Arbour reached for his mike. "We got a problem here, boys. They aren't staying down. Coked out of their minds…"
Alan's radio crackled. "Damn it, we know that. What the hell is going on?!"
The mob was, now, 15 yards away. The officers started to panic. The firing became frantic bursts, many of them scrambling to reload. The mob inched closer and closer, all the while taking hits and standing back up. Alan's mind raced. How could they be walking, much less alive? What was happening? What would happen?
"We have to withdraw!!" Alan broke into a fierce sweat.
"Stand your fucking ground, Constable! We can't leave our comrades out here!" Arbour yelled.
"They have to escape, too! We can't win this way!"
The mob had reached the first of the cruisers. There were screams, long and loud. Alan watched in utter panic as his companions were enveloped in the mass of people. Several of the police turned to run away, trying to get into their cars. Alan heard the yells, the sheer terror of his friends as they were attacked. He saw one of them, bent backwards over a car, firing wildly into the air and they held him down and… bit him. They were eating them, like mindless animals. Blood was spattered across the hood of the S.T.A.R.S. car as they mangled one of the officers, his hands clutching and scraping for something, anything, to fight them off with.
The officers began to run. They turned and sprinted away, away from the… the zombies, the death, the smell. They slid over the hoods of cars in their escape, but they were locked in. Behind them, and to the side, there were more coming. The intersection was a three-way, and there were zombies coming at them from all directions.
"Oh, no…" The first of them gasped, understanding that their time had come. The mobs closed in as the RPD fought for their lives, shrieking, firing, running. They were locked in, and nobody could save them. The zombies pushed onward as the RPD backed against the walls, fumbling with their weapons.
"Get them away! No!"
"We - we can't run, there's nowhere to - " And then, the screeching like nothing Alan had heard before. The sound of men being torn, mauled alive. Alan and Sgt. Arbour had a bird's eye view of the whole thing. The news teams were murdered, ambulance crews shredded, firemen much the same…
...
He looked around the back of the van, across to Sgt. Arbour. The good Sergeant's chin was dotted with graying stubble, a grim expression of foreboding on his face. He peered at Alan through his dark sunglasses. Alan knew he was old, at least 25 years in the RPD service. Head of the S.W.A.T. sniper group and the best shot in Raccoon. At least, at the range.
Alan was the spotter - the second half of a two-man sniper team. He watched the sniper's back, scoped out targets, and gave him essential information on distance, wind, and threat recognition. Arbour would be all but useless without his help.
Alan heard the voice crackle over his headset. "Westbound on 22nd avenue, towards Raccoon Hospital intersection. ETA is one minute."
The back of the van was dim. Alan could barely discern his comrades. Goosebumps broke on his flesh, a deep tingling sensation. Maybe it was the chill of the van, or the adrenaline of pending combat.
The foremost RPD cruisers, including S.T.A.R.S. unit 184, swerved up to the middle of the street and formed an angled roadblock. The vans of S.W.A.T. followed, officers jumping out from the back even as it came to a complete stop.
"Go!" The officer at the doors pushed them open and more officers jumped out. All were armed to the teeth, and they knew the gravity of the situation. The… "rioters" had to be stopped, with either a show of force, or a bullet to the head.
Sgt. Arbour was out and running before Alan could stand, rifle in hand. "Haul ass, Constable!!" As Alan hustled out, the looked towards the foremost RPD units, stepping out of their cars and facing the mob sternly. Each of the RPD had a weapon, and Alan prayed they had the guts to use them. Arbour hurled himself towards the apartment building across the street. Many of the civilians around had locked themselves into their homes, sitting in the corner with a ba, Alan assumed.
The doors were pushed aside and Arbour moved straight for the express stairs at the end of the dark hallway, Alan on his heels. They clambered up the musty staircase as fast as they could, heading for the roof. Alan's heart hammered in his chest, pounding in his head. His MP510A2 would soon become his best friend.
The weapon was sleek, like a greyhound. 10mm, specially chambered rounds, a subgun developed by Heckler + Koch for those who needed a little extra bang for their buck. It had been ordered by him as soon as he had made the sniper unit of the RPD. It packed thirty rounds of hollowpoint 10mm rounds, and a tightly set tritium-illuminated telescopic sight for low-light targeting, calibrated for maximum target engagement distance 65 yards.
They reached the top of the stairs together, pushing the door open and running to the side. Arbour rested his bipod on the cement rail, looking out over the mob.
"I can see them… they're coming this way…"
"Hold your fire. Don't shoot until I say."
"Where- where did they all come from?"
"Keep it together!!"
Alan closed his left eye and peered through his scope, surveying the area. There were news crews, ambulances sweeping past, fire trucks… a city-wide emergency. He could see flames in the distance, burning cars… many accidents had been reported since the evening, not to mention the prowlers, lost contact with patrolling officers, murders, attacks in the streets. The smell was unlike anything he'd smelled before… of sweat, blood, smoke, all at the same time. It had infested him, his clothes, and everything around him. He wasn't even sure he was alive anymore, the smell was so unearthly.
Down the street, Alan could see them. The mob. Most of them walked almost drunkenly swaying limbs and looking around. Alan couldn't pick out faces, but many of them bore distinctive bloodstains on their clothes. "What do you make of it, Constable? What are they on?" Arbour hissed from behind his rifle.
"I… don't know… some new hallucinogen or mentally-altering drug… hopped up after a rave, or… but this is the result of that cannibal disease thing, right?"
"You think they're all infected, huh?" Arbour was steady, in voice and body, unbelievably. Alan prayed Arbour's iron constitution would hold up if the shooting started. "I don't buy it," Arbour paused for a moment, "Don't just sit there, give me some readings!"
"Uhh… winds coming from the northwest, about 6 miles. Looks like the closest target is about 100 yards away… about 12 degrees down." Alan continued searching, and found something he had been looking for since he had set up - bodies. "Sergeant, we got bodies. Two of them, laying in the middle of the street. They're surrounded by the mob… check up a few degrees, to the left side."
"Shit…" Arbour tipped his headset mike to his lips. "We got bodies. Two of them." The reply was muffled by the earphone. "No, can't see any weapons. Yet."
A few seconds later, there was a call out over the megaphone. "Lay down, hands on top of your heads! All of you!"
The crowd did not respond.
"If you do not comply, we will resort to more forceful measures. Stop your advance."
They kept coming. Alan couldn't see the end of them, the street stretched on, and the streetlights highlights groups of them every twenty feet or so. "What the hell is going on?" Alan whispered to himself. The mod was 75 yards away now. Arbour bristled behind his rifle. "Target."
That meant he had one in his sights. "I'm tracking him, I won't trap him yet." That meant he would follow the man's advance, but not shoot until the order was giving. "Trapping" was a tactic used by snipers when hitting a moving target. The sniper would set his crosshairs a few meters ahead of the target, and when the target moved into his scope, he would fire.
The mob was 65 yards away now. Alan rested his 10A2 on his forearm and put his crosshairs towards the crowd.
"Gas 'em!"
There was a shoonk as the canisters of tear gas flew from the launchers and rattled to the streets, spewing fumes into the air. It engulfed the crowd in furious clouds of white, completely obscuring them.
That's when Alan began to hear the moaning. Not the sounds of humans in pain, no… the sound was too guttural, too throaty, too animal. It reminded Alan or old horror movies, a monstrous entity only crafted in twisted minds. Alan was too hesitant to even think it's name.
Standard police operation called for strict fire discipline unless there was somebody in immediate physical danger. The bodies had pretty much sealed that for Alan, but the word would have to come from the leader.
Abruptly, a paunchy man in a white apron and red shirt came flying out his shop door and into the street. Civilian, no visible threat -
"You! Freeze!!"
The man turned to face the RPD - and the rioters came stumbling out from behind the smokescreen, arms grasping and mouths working. One tackled him to the the asphalt, holding him down, and -
"What the fuck?! He's eating him!" One of the RPD shouted. The man began to shriek, a chilling yell of fear and pain. Others of the mob fell on him, blocking the RPD's view.
"The gas had no effect!!"
"My God, what are they doing to him?!"
"Fire! Now!"
"They have no weapons - "
"They're killing that man! FIRE!!"
The first bullet to fly was Sgt. Arbour's. The 7.62mm FMJ sliced through the air and into the upper cranium of one of the mob, dropping him to the road. Blood sprayed from the wound as the man squirmed for a moment, then stopped. A hail of gunfire spattered the mob with rounds, taking them down in twos, threes, fours. The officers continued the firing into the mob, a brutal display of what would normally be termed a horrid act of misjustice. They didn't even have weapons… and yet, they saw them kill a man right there, in front of them.
Alan flicked his selector to single-shot and started lining up his crosshairs on one of them. His fingers felt alien, as if they weren't moving of his own accord. The trigger was pulled, and the 10mm shot whistled through the air and wetly smacked into the throat of one of the mob. Alan watched him fall as the round cut a chunk out of his throat, twitching, his mouth opening and gasping at the air. His crosshairs remained upon the body as it convulsed, watching. The man turned over, and pushed himself up.
"What the - how could he be alive?"
Arbour turned to face Alan. "What?!"
"I shot one right in the throat, and he's getting back up!!"
"My God, they are… I hit one in the heart, and he was down… right there! Where did he go?!" Arbour reached for his mike. "We got a problem here, boys. They aren't staying down. Coked out of their minds…"
Alan's radio crackled. "Damn it, we know that. What the hell is going on?!"
The mob was, now, 15 yards away. The officers started to panic. The firing became frantic bursts, many of them scrambling to reload. The mob inched closer and closer, all the while taking hits and standing back up. Alan's mind raced. How could they be walking, much less alive? What was happening? What would happen?
"We have to withdraw!!" Alan broke into a fierce sweat.
"Stand your fucking ground, Constable! We can't leave our comrades out here!" Arbour yelled.
"They have to escape, too! We can't win this way!"
The mob had reached the first of the cruisers. There were screams, long and loud. Alan watched in utter panic as his companions were enveloped in the mass of people. Several of the police turned to run away, trying to get into their cars. Alan heard the yells, the sheer terror of his friends as they were attacked. He saw one of them, bent backwards over a car, firing wildly into the air and they held him down and… bit him. They were eating them, like mindless animals. Blood was spattered across the hood of the S.T.A.R.S. car as they mangled one of the officers, his hands clutching and scraping for something, anything, to fight them off with.
The officers began to run. They turned and sprinted away, away from the… the zombies, the death, the smell. They slid over the hoods of cars in their escape, but they were locked in. Behind them, and to the side, there were more coming. The intersection was a three-way, and there were zombies coming at them from all directions.
"Oh, no…" The first of them gasped, understanding that their time had come. The mobs closed in as the RPD fought for their lives, shrieking, firing, running. They were locked in, and nobody could save them. The zombies pushed onward as the RPD backed against the walls, fumbling with their weapons.
"Get them away! No!"
"We - we can't run, there's nowhere to - " And then, the screeching like nothing Alan had heard before. The sound of men being torn, mauled alive. Alan and Sgt. Arbour had a bird's eye view of the whole thing. The news teams were murdered, ambulance crews shredded, firemen much the same…
...