Author's Note: I'm alive! Anyway, been a while since I've written. The story's getting less humorous and more action oriented. Looking back at the first few chapters, I realize that I've kind of morphed into a more realistic style. It might be influenced by my other story, which has a serious tone. *shrug*
A Cat Named Wesker
Chapter 7: Navigating
Wesker stared daggers at the map in front of his face. Turning his head to one side, he jabbed a gloved finger on the yellow star, located conveniently in one corner of the plastic screen and printed neatly with the words "you are here."
"I am here…," Wesker read out loud, squinting at the flickering sign through his sunglasses. Behind him, Wesker the cat was sitting patiently on the waxed floor.
"Here," Wesker repeated again, poking the star once more as if reassuring himself of its existence. "Now that means…if I go in this direction…" He dragged his finger to the left, into the adjacent rectangle. "And take a turn here – no wait. I take a turn here…"
Wesker paused and cocked his head in the other direction.
"…but that's a dead end. And where the hell are the stairs?!" he muttered, rubbing his chin vigorously. He took a step back to observe the mall map from afar, his eyes running over the countless color-coded blocks, neon squiggles, and swirly numbers plastered over the sign.
"God damn it," the captain spat out in frustration. "How the hell am I supposed to read this piece of shit?" The cat behind him watched with curious, widened eyes as the human aimed a kick at the sign board. It flickered dangerously under the abuse.
"I swear, whoever designed this friggin' building could give Trevor a run for his money," the human snarled.
From his spot on the tiled floor, the cat gave a quiet meow that (to Wesker at least) sounded suspiciously like an exasperated sigh.
"What?!" he snapped, now directing his glare at the feline behind him. "You can't blame me. I'm not a fucking professional cartographer! And besides, Redfield's the one that usually works with the maps and compasses."
Wesker turned back towards the plastic sign and scratched his head (gently, of course, as to not disturb its carefully gelled shape.) Now, if only he could figure out a way to locate the S.T.A.R.S., this whole terrorist-stopping mission would be a lot simpler. Damn you Irons, Wesker thought to himself as he leaned in to inspect the map in greater detail. I told that cheap bastard that we needed some radios for the team…
Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.
There were footsteps behind him. And by the sound of it, more than one person, too.
"Any sign of him?" a voice called out faintly from the direction of the noise.
"I swear I heard someone talking down there," another man replied, the sound increasing in magnitude as he honed in on the captain's location. "I think it was coming from over there, by that post…"
Shit! More merceneries? What do they have up there, an entire platoon? Wesker thought desperately, glancing left and right for another place to hide. The Foot Locker to his right was still well lit despite the faltering power supply and was definitely not the best place to conceal oneself. However, the shop to his left was partially masked in darkness and the majority of its fluorescent lights were broken. A wasn't hard for him to make a decision.
Wesker took a deep breath, tightening up his muscles and willing his movements to be silent, before lunging out from behind the sign post and sprinting straight through the doorway and into the shop on his left. He landed in a smooth roll across the linoleum floor, boots squeaking conspicuously on the ground, before sliding to a stop between several rows of darkened clothes stands. At the same time, some remote part of his consciousness noted the black cat following him into the aisles.
"There!" one of the men yelled out, the second the blond had sprung into action. "Did you see that?" Sounds of scuffling feet and clanking metal followed the voice as the mercenaries approached the shop entrance.
Pulling himself to his feet, Wesker quickly took in his surroundings as his brain raced to find a place to hide.
The first thing he spotted was a rack of lace brassiere directly to his left. No, he thought to himself, quickly passing over the spot. They're too transparent and won't provide much cover. Those bikinis on the next rack won't work either. But, those silk night gowns over by the counter, on the other hand…
Wait. What?
Wesker blinked several times, forcing his eyes to adjust to the darkness.
For the first time since his entrance, he was suddenly aware that he was surrounded by racks and racks of white, black, and pink lingerie; most of which contained more holes than fabric. In fact, there were two curvy, feminine mannequins planted directly in front of him, each adorned with low necked, lace camisoles and shockingly revealing underpants.
Where the hell…?
"He dove into the Victoria's Secret, over on the left," cried an urgent voice from outside the doors. "Cover me! I'm going in!"
Victoria's Secret?! Wesker thought, gaping in instinctively found his eyes drawn to the alluring full length posters on the walls, but quickly snapped them away. No! Stop. Don't get distracted, Al. This is a life or death situation. You have to stay focused.
Hearing the footsteps closing in on the door, he scuffled quickly behind the two mannequins and crouched down. At the same time, he silently slid his pistol out of its holster, releasing the safety with a barely audible click. Once finished with his preparations, he carefully snuck a peek between the plastic calves of the mannequins, just in time to spot a heavily armed figure charge through the shop doors.
The mercenary hefted a menacing sub machine gun, which he held up in a readied position as he entered the room. Unlike the pair that Wesker had met earlier in the Sunglasses Hut, this man was noticeably more experienced. His eyes flashed left and right under his helmet as he walked slowly and quietly toward the center of the store. When a tinkling sound resounded from one corner of the room, and the mercenary whipped around in a blink of an eye, gun held up to his shoulder. He held the position for several, cautious seconds, motionless as a statue, before relaxing slightly and turning forward again.
It was then that he spotted the two mannequins in front of the center display stand. Wesker snapped his face away from his peek hole the second he saw the enemy's eyes lock onto his position. Heart pumping with adrenaline, the S.T.A.R.S captain held up his pistol, ready to fight.
Stupid cat saved me the last time, but it won't happen again. I've got to pull it together or else…
And then Wesker heard a sound that chilled him to the bone. It was a familiar sound, one he that brought back memories of his younger days at Arkley…and of the sewers where he had been separated from the S.T.A.R.S.
Upon hearing the moan, the mercenary gave a soft cry of surprise, turning to his left as the clothes racks in that direction suddenly began to shake and rattle. Wesker, out of shock and, perhaps, long forgotten training from his research days, found his body moving on its own. In a heartbeat, he leapt out from his hiding place, pistol held up in search for a decaying head to put a bullet in.
The mercenary had stopped staring dumbly at the racks, and instead, was firing into the aisles, causing bits of lace and silk to fly out in all directions. But it was obvious to Wesker that the man had never encountered a creature like this before. He aimed too low, near the torso and midriff level. It would barely do any lasting damage.
Seconds after the man opened fire, the zombie crashed out from behind the clothes, hands extended, mouth open wide……and with a bra hanging precariously off its head, one cup covering its eye like a large, pink eye patch. In addition, two ruffled baby dolls were draped over its gray body, and a tiny thong was wrapped around its bloody foot. If it had been any other situation, Wesker was sure he would have burst out laughing and the sheer ridiculousness of it all.
The victim of the undead creature, however, didn't find it such a laughing matter. Screaming shrilly, the mercenary stumbled backward, shooting another spray of bullets into the zombie's tattered stomach. It barely flinched and continued forward, its rotting hands brushing the surface of the mercenary's helmet.
Wesker stood by the plastic mannequins, watching in quiet disgust as the creature's fingers clamped down on its victims neck, turning the man's screams into desperate gurgles. Its teeth dug into the flesh and blood squirted grotesquely in all directions. But the S.T.A.R.S. captain knew he didn't have time to observe the poor man's fate. Turning away, he dashed toward the back of the store, bee-lining towards the glowing exit sign on the wall. He heard a bloodcurdling scream from behind him as he neared the door, but he didn't bother to turn around.
It's probably just the poor man's partner, attempting to save his friend. How unfortunate for the pair…Wesker thought, smiling to himself inwardly. The distraction had proved useful for the captain; he never would have been able to escape so easily if the creature had not so conveniently appeared.
"But of course, that would mean those zombies from the sewers have already made their way up to the mall," he said with a frown, as he threw himself through the emergency exit door and out into the subsequent hallway.
The slam of the closing door behind him echoed loudly through the corridor as Wesker slowed to a stop. Wincing at the noise, he held his breath and listened attentively for any enemies that may have heard the noise.
There wasn't a sound, save for the buzzing of the electrical light above him. The rest of the hall was shrouded in darkness. The power to this area must have been cut, he thought to himself, as he took a cautious step forward. Something shimmered in his peripheral view, and Wesker felt a sudden presence slip past his legs.
Unleashing a girlish yelp, the police captain (a very experienced one too, mind you) leapt to one side, slipped on the waxed floor, and fell flat on his back. In the process, however, he had managed to pull up his gun and proceeded to riddle the spot he had been standing on with bullet holes, all the while screaming in panic.
Crapcrapcrapcrapcrap…he swore to himself, in a state of frenzied hysteria. How could he be so careless? He could practically feel the cold, undead fingers wrapping around his leg, its snarling mouth drooling for human flesh as it pulled him closer and closer and closer—
The adrenaline induced panic melted away as soon as it came, and Wesker was left staring at a very shocked cat twitching behind the sights on his firearm.
"Jesus!" he gasped, lowering the still-smoking pistol. He wasn't sure whether to be relieved that it hadn't been a zombie or to be scared, given that he had just alerted the entire mall of his exact location. "For fuck's sake, do not sneak up on me like that. I was going to have fucking heart attack, you stupid animal." He let out a long sigh and closed his eyes in relief.
Although Wesker knew he should be strangling the life out of that damn cat, he felt oddly comforted by the feline's familiar presence. At least now he knew there was something else alive with him down in this hell hole, even if it was just a dumb beast. He began to get to his feet, his Glock still resting comfortably in his right hand. I have to find the rest of S.T.A.R.S, he was thinking to himself as he stood up and brushed the dirt off his uniform. I have to find a way to locate the team…
As Wesker turned back toward the darkened hallway, he was greeted with, yet another, heart-attack-inducing shock of the day. He found himself within bare inches of a twisted, rotten face.
"What the hell--" the blond exclaimed, taking a shocked step backwards. But his body acted on its own; his gun snapped up on reflex (aided by the waning adrenaline from earlier) and with a sickening splat, the zombie's head exploded in a mass of gray and red flesh.
He stared in amazement at the crumbling corpse for a good minute, before he took his first, shocked breath.
"The damn thing almost got me," he murmured to the cat, who had found a hiding spot behind his legs. "Where the hell did it come from?"
Wesker the cat stared up at him in an indifferent way, as if saying "how should I know?" before cautiously slinking out from behind his boots.
"Damn…" Wesker repeated slowly. His heart seemed to have lodged itself in his throat and was unwilling to remove itself. "I think I've had my fair share of surprises today." He rubbed his temples tiredly, before shoving the cat aside with one boot and edging carefully into the darkened hallway.
Cats, bombs, terrorists, and now a full scale zombie outbreak? He thought to himself as he disappeared into the darkness, the cat padding diligently behind his heels. Shaking his head in annoyance, he swore inwardly at his bad luck. How did he get himself stuck in such a mess? Well, my main goal now should be locating the S.T.A.R.S. But how the fuck am I going to do that in a mall of this size…?
As if some divine presence was attempting to recompensate the captain for his recent string of misfortunes, one of the fluorescent lights abruptly flickered on and illuminated a sign hanging on the wall.
Security room, it read, with a bold arrow pointing further down into the bleak hallway.
"Security room?" Wesker questioned out loud. "That would mean…video feeds. Of the entire mall." Realization hit him suddenly like a sledgehammer.
The captain felt a grin spreading across his face. It would seem that lady luck seemed to be favoring him at the moment.
"Albert Wesker. Albert Wesker. Albert Wesker," Ritchie spat, repeating the name over and over as if it were a mantra. Passing a trash can, the he kicked it over with an inhumane snarl.
The white-suited man stormed down the main hallway of the mall, belligerently attacking any object that was in his way and flinging it aside with a kick or swipe of his hand. Ritchie's handsome face was covered in sweat and carried a tinge of reddish purple that darkened as the seconds ticked by. His fingers were gripped so tightly around his gun that the whites of his knuckles contrasted shockingly with his flushed face.
With an explosive yell he punted another trash can across the tiled floor, baring his teeth at the metal cylinder as it clanked and rolled away. "I'm gonna kill him. I'm gonna kill that son of a bitch. I'm gonna strangle him, wring out his life and watch the bastard squeal."
He continued down the hall, muttering crazily to himself as he walked.
"Who does he think he is? 'The best of the best' huh? Ritchie said in a false, sing-song voice. "I'll show him whose best! I'll fucking kill him, and then let's see what Spencer says." An image of the old man's bewildered face flickered into his mind, and he began to giggle uncontrollably.
"Kill him, that's the plan! Hehehe! Albert Wesker, dead. Hahaha…," he broke into insane laughter, his face distorted with emotion.
One of Ritchie's polished Oxfords kicked upon something soft and squishy in his path. Stopping, he looked down to see the half eaten body of one of Savage's mercenaries. The corpse's face was contorted into a horrifying expression of pain and a dismembered arm could be spotted a few feet away. Ritchie felt his humor disintegrating, and his laughter died down to a stuttering chuckle.
The sight of the dead body churned his stomach, but at the same time, brought a brief moment of clarity to his dwindling mind. He couldn't just blindly stalk through the mall searching for…for…Wesker. (The mere thought of the captain's name disgusted Ritchie and a brief wave of anger flooded through his nerves.) No. He had to play it smart, or else he'd end up zombie chow like the draining corpse at his feet. He needed a way to locate the captain quickly and safely, thereby reducing his chances of running into one of those monsters.
He looked up from the carcass, dark eyes sweeping over his surroundings. A place to locate a person in a mall. A place to locate…
From the corner of his eye, he spotted a mall map, splattered with blood, and facing the hallway. He turned his head slowly to face the object, eyes widening as an idea begin to formulate in his brain.
The mall blue prints. Yes, he remembered Savage showing them to him when they had been planning the operation. The mercenary had circled several key locations of the mall in red sharpie, as he laid out the plan. In fact, he specifically remembered one room, nestled discreetly behind the boxes and rectangles that represented the shops on the paper. It had been on the east side of the building, near the back end of the mall.
Ritchie stepped smoothly over the body on the ground, his pants brushing by the cold, dead skin. He had a deranged smile on his face that would have made the Cheshire cat envious. After all, he knew exactly where he needed to go in order find the S.T.A.R.S. captain and execute his revenge.
With a giggle, the ex-Umbrella operative strode towards the direction of the mall's security room and its video feeds, the Desert Eagle still held firmly in the palm of his right hand.
Back at the second level of the mall, Savage was busy supervising his mercenaries as they barricaded the entrance of the furniture store. Standing by the doorway, his tall, gaunt features were imitating, to say the least, and none of the men dared to speak a word as they worked in silence. Several had dragged cabinets and bed stands to the opening and stacked them strategically so that nothing short of a bulldozer could get through the entrance without struggling. Two of his bomb experts were setting up explosives on either side of the hallway, and a few marksmen were positioning themselves by the balcony overlooking the bottom level of the mall.
One rather pasty looking man came sprinting down the hallway, skipping over the two bomb experts and skidding to a stop in front of his boss. He saluted sharply, before delivering his message.
"Savage, sir, should we go and get the hostages now? They're still up at the north end, with Charlie and Bruce." The mercenary couldn't help but notice the look in Savage's eyes. His naturally emotionless face seemed to be tinged with a slight sense of weariness, and the hired man couldn't help but feel a bit anxious about the whole situation.
Savage said nothing at first, but pulled up his wrist to take a glance at his watch.
"It's been almost fifteen minutes…," he said quietly to himself. Fifteen minutes since Ritchie had left, and fifteen minutes since Spencer had supposedly deployed his bio-containment team. Time was running out.
"Yes," he continued, looking up at his subordinate. "Radio Bruce and tell them to bring the S.T.A.R.S up. I want them on the far end of the store, and well guarded too. We'll use them as leverage when the time comes."
"Yes, sir!" the man replied, saluting once more. He began to turn and leave, but was stopped by Savage.
"Wait. Those crates we brought in before…the one's with the animals…"
"What about the crates, sir?"
Savage paused for a second, as if debating over an idea, but evidently made up his mind.
"Yes, the crates. I want you to get two other men and set the dogs loose in the lower levels."
"L-loose…sir?" the man stammered, his pasty face turning even paler. He didn't seem to sit well with the idea of handling the creatures Ritchie had brought in with him.
"Do it quickly," Savage replied, his voice hard.
"But sir, isn't Mr. Stewart down there?"
"Don't worry about him. He won't be coming back."
The mercenary bombed his head up and down, though a bit uncertainly.
"Understood, sir. I'll get to it right away."
Savage watched as the man headed away, before turning towards the railing to observe the lower level of the mall that stretched out below. The sky roof above him let in light that illuminated the open space and brightened the atmosphere, despite the broken power supply. Sighing, Savage closed his eyes briefly and cleared his mind.
He stood there for a minute, motionless.
Then he took a deep breath, before opening his eyes and heading back into the furniture store and sitting down on one of the wooden chairs. From one pocket he pulled out a combat knife and began to sharpen it with quick, forceful movements.
End note: The problem with me is that I'm the type of person with way too many hobbies. As a result, I switch between them in my limited free time, and end up not doing one thing or another. I haven't written for months, during which I've been focusing mostly on art, but it feels good to start again. Bear with me though, I feel a bit rusty.
