Author's Preface: I would like to have it on record, before being accused of creating a Marty Stu, since this story's character shares my username, that my actual name is NOT Marcus Reyner. In fact, I've kind of had this brewing for a long time, and this is where that name came from originally. So, yeah. He's not a Marty Stu from that, find alternative evidence of such.
CHAPTER 1: INSERTION
"Whoo! Look at that down there, boys! A genuine, bonafide, true-to-life Shit Hits The Fan scenario! The god damned zombie apocalypse! It is beautiful, in its horror. Shit, man, I've been preparing for this since before I even signed up!"
Lt. Vincent Stalvern's voice easily rose over the chopper's propellers. He had always been a bit too into the job, but at least he was a happy man. Marcus had a theory that it was just a persona he put on.
He had known Vince for about 8 months, and he HAD gotten that degree in psychology in college, even worked as a therapist for a while. What he was doing in the UBCS...
"REYNER!" Vincent shouted, snapping Marcus out of his trance, a combined hypnosis of bad memories and the strangely soothing sounds of blazing fires, propellers, and the distant screams and gunfire. Marcus had heard these sounds so often while on duty, he could fall asleep to them.
"Sir?"
"You okay, buddy?" Vincent asked.
"Sir, yes sir!" Marcus replied.
Vince turned away, facing the rest of the squad.
"Alright, people! Brass check your weapons and safe them! I don't want to see any ADs, but I need you to be able to rock and roll when you need to!"
Marcus racked a round in his UBCS-issued M4A1, the 5.56x45mm NATO 62-grain round feeding into the chamber smoothly. He flipped the selector switch to safe and dropped the weapon into the loving embrace of his single-point sling.
He pulled his sidearm, a newly-issued SIG Pro SP 2009, which SIG was officially still testing prior to mass production. He racked the slide a quarter of the way, stopping at the sight of brass. He let the slide fly back into battery, and holstered the gun.
He had loaded it with 9mm Glaser Blues, from his last box of the personally-bought ammo. Umbrella officially issued Wolf ammo, because it was cheap, but the only reason to buy Wolf was that it was cheap. Umbrella was the most profitable company in the world, they could at least afford Federal.
But, no, they were stuck with Wolf. Well, not Marcus. He spent half of his monthly paycheck, which was a substantial amount of money, on mission-used ammo. He couldn't even write it off as a work expense... At least Umbrella issued real military-grade SS109 ball ammo for the M4s.
"GLASS!" Vincent shouted, referring to Phillip O'Neil, the squad marksman. Marcus had delusions that he was special, using his own personal ammo, but Glass actually topped him, using his own personal Springfield M1A, in .308, preferring it over the UBCS-issued Heckler and Koch PSG-1.
A few of the other marksmen made fun of him for using an M1A, rather than what they referred to as "H&K Perfection", but Marcus had fired both before, and honestly preferred the M1A. They fired very similar rounds and carried the same amount of ammo, but... Something about wood and steel made Marcus happy.
"The fuck you want, LT? Trying to sleep here!" Glass shouted back with a grin.
"That roof! We're gonna land there, clear it of hostiles!" Vincent ordered, gesturing to an apartment complex to the chopper's 3 o'clock, and the group of 4 rotters on it.
"You know I don't like shootin' from a chopper, LT! It's so tough to do!" O'Neil whined sarcastically. He loved showing off.
"You know I don't like givin' orders twice, Glass!" Vincent shouted back.
O'Neil grinned even wider, and flipped up his scope covers. He steadied the rifle on a rig, exhaled, and...
BANG! One zombie dropped, its head exploding in gore.
BANG! Another one.
BANG! BANG! The wall beside the next one's chest shattered. A quick follow-up shot took off its head.
BANG! The last one's knee exploded, sending it to the ground.
The chopper landed on the roof, and O'Neil pushed past everyone to run towards the crawling zombie.
"Get some, Glass!" Richard Calvins, the SAW gunner, shouted.
As the zombie reached it's hand up towards the O'Neil, as if he were begging for mercy, O'Neil brought his foot down hard, popping the thing's head like a gourd.
"Remember, No-balls, you owe me ten bucks as soon as we get back to base." Richard was a compulsive gambler, betting on anything. James Blanc was the new guy, recently attached to the unit. This was his first mission. He carried the squad's shotgun, a Benelli M3S.
Marcus had seen many of his kind die on their first mission. The young, naive little boy, who was only attached because he was a refugee from a fascist government. He hadn't even committed a crime, as most other UBCS troopers had. He reminded Marcus a little of himself, though. So maybe he just might survive. Zombies were an easy opponent, to be honest. Nothing like fighting fanatics with guns, which the last mission had been.
Marcus took in his surroundings, taking a deep breath that filled his nostrils with the stench of smoke and death. Raccoon City used to be a nice city. Marcus had lived there for a few months. He had found and lost a girlfriend in that city. He wondered if she was still alive. Probably not. This was no longer Raccoon City. This was a bad place.
"We sure this is Irons' place?" Marcus asked Vincent, as the chopper lifted off and headed back to base. Vincent waved him off, signaling that he was getting a message on his headset and walking away to talk to base.
O'Neil did a double-take at Marcus's question.
"Wait, what the fuck, Irons lives in an apartment? Fuck, man, if I had half the kickback money he gets, I'd buy a goddamn mansion somewhere." he grumbled, shaking his head.
"What do you mean, kickback money?" James asked.
"What, you mean you don't know?" O'Neil asked in mock surprise. He grinned, and continued. "Umbrella caused all this, man, and Irons knew. He helped them. He got fat wads of cash for keeping quiet and providing test subjects. That's why he stopped the S.T.A.R.S. investigation of the mansion incident, in the Arklay Mountains. It would have exposed Umbrella's illegal-"
"The S.T.A.R.S were full of shit, man; on drugs." Richard interrupted. "Probably killed the rest of their members themselves. Unprofessional motherfuckers." He spat as he said it.
"You're just mad they wouldn't take you because of that felony, Dick." Vince said, coming back from his conversation. "Enough chatter. Yes, Marcus, this is where Chief Irons is supposed to be, with a pick-up for us."
"If there were zombies on the roof, it would suggest the building is abandoned, sir!" James chimed in. The kid really wanted to fit in... Really eager.
Vince smiled, as one would to a small child pointing out something incredibly obvious.
"It sure would, James. If I had to guess, I'd say he's probably at the police station, as some reports over the comms indicate. But it's likely he left the package for us here. Zombies aren't going to touch a briefcase." Vince replied. "The package is the number one priority."
"What's in it?" James asked.
Vincent shrugged. "Don't know, don't care. Honestly, I've worked for Umbrella for 3 years, I know not to ask questions. Might not last long if you do."
James blanched at that. Marcus knew the look. The "What the hell have I gotten myself into" look, the one that all rookies shared. Minus ten confidence points for James.