IV
Seeing S.T.A.R.S.
Brad ran the events that had just transpired over and over again in his mind, trying to figure out if there was any way it could've gone different. But no matter how many times he ran it through his head, he knew it wouldn't have been any different if they decided to go down different streets and pathways. No matter where they would have gone, the Nemesis would've found them and would've killed Rick and leave Brad defenseless and alone.
What's it all for? Brad thought, thinking of Rick. What was the reason you didn't go when I told you to go? You idiot. You left your daughter an orphan.
Rick Gonzales, good 'ol Ricky, was gone, taken in the darkness and flames of Raccoon City, like all the others. But that didn't matter anymore. Brad was still alive, those survivors were hopefully still alive, and he had to worry about those that were still living, not dwelling on those who were not.
Brad came almost halfway to where the survivors currently were. He was by an apartment building on the far eastern side of the city, about a half hour's trek to the station from where he was, but it would take a little longer now that he had to backtrack and find the survivors.
Brad scoured the street, looking for any fallen officers who still had any weapons or ammunition on them, or carefully scoping out the street to see if there was an officer carrier in the crowd with a handgun still in its holster.
His luck seemed to become a little better when he chanced upon an officer's body slumped over in his squad car. Poor bastard never even made it out of his seat, Brad thought, checking the officer's wounds and noticing that his throat had been ripped out, and that there was no chance of his reviving. Still, Brad felt a little cautious and a little depressed as he stared at his fallen brother. "Miller" was the name on his nametag.
Brad ran it through his mind if he knew the man, but didn't. He apologized silently and reached towards the man's side, pulling out a Beretta and two fresh clips; it seemed that Officer Miller didn't even manage to fire a round before he was overtaken by the carriers. He thanked Miller for the clips and proceeded onward, looking on to some carrier activity that was mere feet away from him. He tried to pay it no mind, but there was something in the way they moved and shuffled with one another that got Brad to thinking: was Rick really right when he told him that the carriers were getting smarter? They moved in sync, each carrier shuffling to the side of the carrier next to them, looking like a ten pin stack would look in a bowling alley.
Shit, Brad thought to himself in alarm, as one of the carriers sensed his location and alerted the others, all of them now bringing their ten pin strategic movements towards Brad. But one of the advantages that Brad had on them was the further use of his legs, which he used to sprint away from them. In mere seconds they went from standing a few feet away from him to being little spots in the distance. And when Brad glanced back, he had noticed that the carriers made their way to Miller's body to finish the job on him now that Brad was in safe distance between them. He saw them beat on the car, unable to tell if Miller was still alive, until one of the carriers broke through the window on the passenger's side and shuffled into the squad car, greedily ripping chunks of flesh from Miller's body as his brethren watched in hunger.
Brad didn't even stop to think about what they were potentially doing to Miller's body, and he immediately ran past the apartment building complex to his left and into a small storage warehouse to his right. He reached for the doorknob and was grateful to God that it was open, immediately swinging it open and slamming it shut.
The building was pitch black. Brad reached into his hip pack and removed his flashlight, grabbing and pointing it with his left hand and crossing it with the handgun in his right, utilizing both as an effective tool that Chris Redfield taught him long ago.
His hand was shaking quite a bit, the fear starting to take over. He could hear the sound of his own heart beating louder and louder as he slowly took step by step into the seemingly unending darkness. He came upon what looked like an office to his right, and when he shone his light within, he noticed two carriers biting into the body of a man who was still alive, his screams piercing Brad's flesh with each scream.
"Help me…" the man called to Brad, weakly lifting a hand toward his direction, no doubt the last strength in his body, to ask for deliverance.
The carriers looked over in Brad's direction and Brad quickly withdrew. Shit, shit, shit, Brad thought, breathing heavily, his hand holding the Beretta close to his chest.
Sure enough, both carriers made their way out of the office and swiped at Brad. He immediately ducked and fired first at the carrier, the bullet lodging within its neck, taking it down. The second carrier was quickly dispatched by a bullet to the forehead.
When all was said and done, Brad quickly scanned his environment to see if any stragglers were making their way to him. When he realized that the threat was over, Brad slowly walked into the office and kneeled beside the wounded man dying in front of him.
"Hey," Brad said, shaking the man. "You still with me?"
The man wheezed slightly, blinking uncontrollably, and looked over at Brad. "You…a cop?" the man breathed, blood flowing from his mouth.
Brad nodded. "Special Tactics and Rescue Squad, at your service, sir," Brad said, smirking a little. He knew the man was not far from the end; he could sense it.
"Heh…special forces," the man smiled, grabbing Brad's hand, Brad feeling how cold it was and squeezing it almost immediately. "Help…really came…" he then said, letting his last breath of air escape his lungs, his gaze still fixed on Brad's grief-stricken face.
There was no justice in it, Brad was thinking. No justice for Rick, this man, and for all those who were killed by this virus. Umbrella was playing games with people's lives, and everyone is still watching from afar while Raccoon destroys itself.
Brad let go of the man's cold hand and raised his Beretta to the man's forehead, firing a round that echoed in the warehouse, echoed in Brad's mind, destroying him from the root.
Knowing what Rick told him about the carriers finding the position of the shots fired made the fire under Brad's ass that much hotter. He was instantly on the move, scanning the warehouse for any other threats but noticing nothing. Brad didn't know why, but in most cases, the carriers didn't occupy the building as much as they occupied the streets; Brad figured that when the humans were turned, instinct told them that food was to be found on the outside, not in their confined area.
That thought relieved him.
When he came to the other side of the warehouse, he turned back and took one final look in the direction he had come to make sure he didn't leave anything alive that would come back to bite him on the ass when he was making his move. He silently apologized to the man he had been forced to kill and immediately grabbed the handle of the exit door and piled outside, sprinting as soon as he exited, not taking a second glance to his left or right because his left and right were irrelevant; all he cared about was moving forward and nothing else.
Brad realized he was close to the police station. He had seen some typical carrier activity going on down the block from where he was. There had to be a few dozen of the things banging on the door of another storage warehouse. Judging by how badly they had wanted to get in, something told Brad that there were potential survivors in there, but with more heads to the carriers than he had ammunition, Brad had to make the sensible decision and worry about himself in this case. He was sorry he had to do so, not sure if those survivors were fighting for their lives at the very moment and are in need of assistance, but there was no use in Brad throwing his life away when he wasn't even sure if those people were alive or not.
When I get to the station and get some bigger guns and hopefully some more hands, we'll try to backtrack just to make sure, he assured himself in a way that he wouldn't dwell on it too long. He'd be back to help out if the assistance he needed existed, and that was enough to keep him going.
A few of the carriers caught wind of Brad's scent and turned to face him, but Brad was already too far gone for them to mindlessly give chase, even though they did. That made Brad wonder: how exactly were these things "evolving" as Rick had said? They still seemed like they lacked even the most basic hunting and logic skills needed to get by, so how were they to even understand when it was pointless to give chase?
If you were starving and a cow happened to be three miles from you, you'd chase it, he answered himself, giving in to the logic that hunger would make anybody, or thing, do some outrageous things.
He was not far from where the survivors dwelled; he had at least a few minutes of running time to go before he reached the haven and took the small fleet into the station. Brad had remembered that another officer was with them when they were all locked in there, and the officer was well armed; H&K VP70, and a Remington shotgun, so he didn't worry about anything getting into that small enclosure that wouldn't be easily disposed of.
When Brad entered one of the make-shift barriers the police put up in an attempt to keep the virus' victims at bay, he noticed multiple trashed police cars, some having run into buildings, and some with shattered glass and blood on the doors and windows, no doubt belonging to the officer of that vehicle.
Brad shuddered at the thought that his friends, men and women who he had once said good morning to in the station and even shared a cup of coffee with were among the ranks of these undead, attacking him, making his chance of survival that much slimmer.
Justice wasn't justice anymore.
When was it going to be his turn? When was he going to be the one who had the cards in his hand for a change? The possibility was as much as his escaping the city at all.
The saw that all the police cars were stripped of the extra Remington that was in them, probably survivors who saw their chance at possessing a firearm and taking it…
Brad didn't blame them.
The squad car that had busted through the building had its door's jammed, and Brad didn't even bother with opening them. He went to the end of the walkway in front of him and through a steel door. The survivors were here. Brad traversed on the brittle wooden staircase and walkway as he stood in front of the survivors haven.
Brad knocked once, waiting patiently to see if any of the survivors would ask who was out there. When Brad realized that was stupid for him to do, he took out the key for the door and promptly unlocked it, slowly opening it and shutting the door behind him.
What he smelled made him sick.
Brad looked at the bloodstained walls and floor and saw the bodies of the survivors on the bottom platform and one on the stairs. It seemed the one on the stairs was looking to escape but didn't make it in time. Brad slowly descended the steps, Beretta at the ready, and came to the end of the small room, looking over to the corner and noticing the officer lying lifeless with his hands still clutched to his Remington.
"My God…" Brad whispered, looking over to see that the officer had had his throat ripped out as well. When he saw his opportunity to grab the Remington, he heard a shuffle behind him and noticed that all of the survivors had begun to realize that Brad was in the room, and were attempting to get at their new meal.
When Brad tried to make a run for it, one of the carriers grabbed his leg and tripped him, Brad tumbling to the base of the stairs and staring at the carrier on the steps that was a foot away from his face. He immediately fired once at the carrier's face, its blood spewing on Brad's face, staining it. When the other carrier grabbed his leg once again, Brad fired on him as well, and blew his eye away. He took no time to make it to the top of the steps and shouldered the door open, letting out a small scream of terror as he ran down the walkway in front of him.
Brad thought he heard gunshots from the survivor's haven, but his mind and legs were racing too fast to even care about what was happening at that moment. He ran through a door another steel door at the bottom of the stairs and continued onward, wary that there were some carriers in this enclosed area. He knew there was a bar here he had left some Beretta ammunition in just in case he ever needed it, and he knew this was the time to cash in. When he descended the small steps at the corner of the street, Brad was dismayed to see that the door was locked; he'd have to find another way in.
When he turned, he saw that the carriers were starting to make their way to him. He quickly ascended the steps and proceeded onward, dodging the first carrier by shuffling to his left and the other by simply sprinting past him. When he turned the corner, he noticed three carriers biting chasing after a man. When Brad tried to call out for him, one of them, a man in a tattered U.B.C.S. uniform, made his way back. Brad fired upon him twice, once in the chest and once in the cheek, the carrier slumping against the wall by him, a pool of blood forming underneath it.
Noticing that the man was too far gone now, Brad exited through a wooden door to his right and walked onward, keeping his hand on the steel banister to his right. A carrier was present in front of him, but instead of firing upon him, Brad jumped the banister and landed in the dumpster below him, his body sinking in the stinking piling of garbage.
When he looked straight ahead, he noticed that two carriers who pretended to be dead bodies revived themselves, and another blocked his view into the back entrance of the bar. He jumped out of the dumpster and heard the door he had come in previously open, Brad unaware what it was but wanting to get away from it as soon as possible. He bull rushed the carrier, slamming it against the wall and ran ahead. When he noticed that the thing was still giving chase, a frustrated Brad screamed, "Get away from me!" and fired until the carrier was a bloody pile on the ground.
He immediately ran ahead and entered the bar, still unsure if the sounds he heard outside were the sounds of gunshots or if the sounds were just his imagination playing with him.
He shook the thought away and shut the door behind him, now having a chance to catch his breath. Sweat dripping down his forehead, his stomach in knots, Brad walked toward the register and looked underneath, taking out two boxes of handgun ammunition and quickly refilling his magazines.
Now that he was all ready, he decided that it was best for him to still take his chances with the police station to try to secure some weapons. So when he walked around the counter and began to head toward the back entrance that was locked--
--that was where the carrier that was hiding sprung up.
It grabbed Brad and sunk its teeth into his neck, ripping out a chunk of flesh from him. Brad's eyes widened at the sight of the thing, the pain, and what realization came upon him.
It was game over; there was never going to be any escape for him now.
He shook the carrier off and noticed that it was a police officer. Brad raised his Beretta and fired endlessly, his bullets smacking into the torso of the officer, slowing its trek to take another bite from its food. Brad then aimed for the face and continued to fire and screamed at the top of his lungs until his gun went dry, Brad still pulling the trigger and hearing the click of the empty chamber.
Exhausted, Brad heard the door open and he fell to the floor, the fatigue and pain finally catching up to him. He was ready to give up and let whatever came through the door have him until he saw the boots of a woman walk to his direction. Brad, with tears streaming down his face, gazed up to see his fellow S.T.A.R.S. member staring right back at him with as much shock as he had.
Jill Valentine was in Raccoon City, too; Brad thought he was the only S.T.A.R.S. member left in the city.
Jill, with a pain-stricken face at the sight of Brad's neck wound, gazed back at him with worrisome eyes, Brad gazing back with empty ones.
He lowered his head, the tears sliding down his cheeks and dripping off his chin. He was a dead man walking; she knew it, he knew it, and there was nothing the two of them could do to stop the process.
"Brad?" she called out, kneeling beside him.
Brad, taking in a deep breath, his chest puffing because he was on the verge of crying out of frustration, exhaled just as deeply. He then looked up and saw her face, still as beautiful as ever, immaculate as a doll. It was the most beautiful thing he'd seen in a long time, since this Hell came to earth, to his city.
He didn't take his eyes off her, and she continued to watch him with worry. She grabbed his cold hand with her warm one and smiled a painful smile at him, as if to say she was thinking the same thing about the infection and she was only sorry she hadn't come sooner, where things could have been different.
She called out to him again, her voice cracking a little.
"I didn't know you were still alive, Jill."
