Chapter Ten, up.

Back to the convoy.

Thanks to all my kick-ass reviewers. You pushed this story up from the criticisms it got at the beginning and make it good. Special thanks to Jamie Gartland, Raven Thornheart, Sigokat, XTonberryX, and HawkyeStorm.

Enjoy:

Chapter Ten: Explosive Getaway

Sergeant Arnold sat in the chair and sighed.

They had stopped the convoy at a near-by gas station for refueling. Having been driving around the city for hours, add the fact that the rides had only been half-full on gas when they had found them, they had no choice but to pull over and rest a bit.

Sergeant Waters had taken Delta Two on a quick search around the neighborhood to look for the others. His team, Delta Three, was getting the vehicles ready to move out. So it was with that that he was finally able to sit back and catch a few minutes respite.

Arnold had no idea where to go next. Hopefully, they would find the others soon. Having the pilots' bodies rotting in the back wasn't exactly a luxury for any of them. And he was getting tired. They had been on the ground for about seven hours. Daylight was starting to come up. If they stayed out any longer, they would be sitting ducks for any enemy force out there.

He sat back in his chair and placed his M-4 on the counter. Closing his eyes, he tried for a last-ditch attempt to get some rest…

Whack!

"FOUR!!!" Zack shouted ahead to any unsuspecting golfers. Sam flinched as the ball bounced off a golf cart and down into a sand trap.

"Ooh, tough break," he said to his subordinate, "Today just isn't your golfing day, is it?"

"Yeah, like it's yours," muttered Zack.

Whack! Sam smacked the ball. It soared, forty feet into the air, and came down relatively close to the green.

"Yeah," he replied, "I'd say it is."

Zack scowled, "You're lucky you're my team leader, or I might just bash your head in with my 9 iron."

The two soldiers grabbed their golf bags and proceeded over to where Sam's ball lay in wait in the grass. Sam grabbed the driver and sighed.

"I tell ya, Zack," he said to his friend, "Fresh air, out on the golf field, no officers or anything like that breathing down our necks… I could do this every weekend."

"No kidding," Zack laughed, "And the way you're playing today, I wouldn't be surprised if you wouldn't want to spend every day being today."

"Yeah, man," Sam lined himself up, "Today's perfect. And nothing can possibly take that away from us."

BRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIINGGG!!!!!

The cell phone rang just as he went to swing. The sudden interruption caused him to mis-hit, sending the ball flying into the treeline.

"SHIT SONUVA BITCH!!" he cursed loudly. "SHUT UP!" he snapped at Zack, who had doubled over in hysterical laughter.

He jammed his hand into the bag's pocket, grabbed the cell phone, and brought it to his ear. "WHAT??!!!" he shouted.

His voice calmed down as the conversation went on.

"What does Sullivan want? It's my day off… Mission? ANOTHER one? Jesus... alright, where is it this time? Uh huh... Where the fuck is Raccoon City? More so, WHAT the fuck is Raccoon City? Sounds like an animal village... Why the hell are we going out to the middle of America for a mission? This isn't our kind of detail… Three days? Why should we?... Shit… fine, fine. I'll report to base in three days… yeah… Arnold out."

He flipped his cell phone off and turned to Zack, whose expression was just as serious.

"We're getting called out again," he told him, "Some town out west. Whole unit's getting called out."

Zack sighed heavily. Sam looked in the direction of his ball.

"Ah, forget it," he said, picking up his bag, "Game got called on account of shitty situations."

The door opened. Arnold jerked awake, ready with his M1911. But it was only Sergeant Waters, body in the doorway, shouting back to the other guys.

"Keep your eyes open, guys," he called back to his men. He stepped into the building and sighed.

"I dunno, Sam. We did a couple laps around the block, couldn't find the others anywhere," he said, sitting down opposite the other sergeant.

Arnold groaned. He needed a smoke badly. He didn't like it, but he needed it. He grabbed a cigarette and stuffed it into his mouth, then felt around for a lighter. He couldn't find it.

"Shit," he cursed, "You got a light?"

"Yeah," Waters struck a match and lit it close to the cigarette. Arnold held it so that it lit, then put it in his mouth and inhaled. Heaven.

"That hit the spot," he said gratefully.

"So what do you want to do here, Sam?" asked Waters concernedly.

"What's the situation on the Humvees?"

"Almost ready to go, just a little bit more."

"We'll wait a little longer, then we'll move out towards the park. Just scout around there, it's big enough that they may have hid out there."

-----

Sullivan impatiently watched the video screens for any sign of his men. They had a bead on Delta Two and Delta Three up at the gas station, but still nothing on where the other members were. It was turning out to be a game of cat and mouse. Every time they thought they had a fix on their location, they would turn out to be completely off. This was a mess.

"Sir?" Sonar interrupted.

"Yes?"

"Got U.B.C.F captain on the horn, sir," the operator held up the phone.

Finally, something right. Sullivan was about to connect with the U.B.C.F overall commander about the growing number of soldiers entering the city. His suspicions about Umbrella's motives were still fresh in his mind, but he didn't want to sound like he was accusing them of anything wrong. He just wanted to make sure that there wasn't any illegal activity against his men about to occur. When he got on the phone, he tried to sound businesslike and polite.

"Hello?" a gruff voice on the other end said first.

"Hello, this is Captain Sullivan, who's speaking?" Sullivan replied.

"This is Captain Ian Mackenzie, I'm an officer in the Umbrella Biohazard Countermeasure Force."

"Yes, I understand that there are a lot of your people out there. Are they giving my guys support as best they can?" Not accusatory, just concerned.

The next thing he knew, he was holding the phone a little away from his head, as the voice on the other end had raised his voice.

"Look, sir, I have close to two hundred and fifty men out there. That's Two-Five-Zero. I've lost communication with my commander on the ground, and I believe that my officers may be in danger. If you don't pull your FUCKING finger out of your fucking ass, and hold your fire on our vehicles, then I'm gonna come down there and fucking pull the plug on your operation. My men have the experience. Start doing something to back them the fuck up."

There was a loud click and then the dial tone. Sullivan stared speechlessly at the phone, and then placed it down.

"Well," he said, "That went well."

He was about to just go back to business when something Mackenzie had said rang back to his mind. He turned back to Sonar.

"Have any of our men made reported contact with Umbrella forces since the LZ?" he asked.

"No, sir. None that we know of."

"Get us a visual of their convoy."

"Roger," Sonar spoke into the mic, "Star Four Seven, this is Command, request at this time to fly over the Umbrella convoy and give us a visual, over."

"Roger that. Four Seven inbound now."

The staff watched Four Seven's monitor as it flew over the U.B.C.F besieged convoy. Sure enough, they were taking small-arms fire and what appeared to be a LAW rocker being fired. The assailants stayed in the shadows, but their tactics were unmistakably Delta.

"If that's one of ours, I'm gonna be pissed," growled Sullivan.

"Looks like it, sir," Lt. Riley squinted to the screen, "At least one CAR-15 and SAW, and maybe an M-21."

It was the M-21 that made Sullivan realize who it was. The first two weapons could've made it anyone in the unit, as the CAR-15 was a popular Special Op. weapon, and the SAW was more preferable than the M-60. But there were only two M-21's in the whole unit. And one of them was currently at the gas station with the convoy. That meant…

"Sanderson?"

"It's possible, sir," Sonar piped up, "But what I don't get is why they're opening up on an Umbrella convoy."

"I think we should be asking who shot first, them or us?" Sullivan stated grimly.

Had Umbrella attacked their boys? If so, why? What purpose did they have at shooting each other when they were supposed to be shooting the murderers?

He thought back to the chopper Briggs had reportedly shot down. And now, there was the current situation.

Someone wasn't playing by the rules.

-----

While the two sergeants conferred with each other, Lake, Atkins, and Slowenski were checking over their ammo status. So far, that was the only bright spot; there was still plenty to go around.

"You know, I think this is a pretty good situation," said Lake, enjoying a smoke, "I mean, we're stuck in a city overrun by cannibals, our friends are either dead or missing, we're running around town looking for twelve different people, and we're running out of food, but aside from all that, I'd say we're living the good life right now, wouldn't you agree?"

Atkins just stared at his teammate as if he had never seen anything like him, ever.

"You're kidding me, right?" he asked.

"Naw, I mean it," the other operator replied, "Any other soldier would be pissing themselves with fear in this kinda situation, but not us. This kinda shit, yeah, it's fucked up, but it's not that bad just yet, y'know? We've still got plenty of ammo, we've got rides that have at least four wheels and a .50 each, and we're up against enemies that a.) Can't shoot back, and b.) Are slow, and c.)Go down with a bullet to the head," he shrugged, "I just don't see a reason to worry."

"God, you're fucking high," Atkins shook his head, "What do you think, Ski?"

"I dunno," came the reply from a group of tires.

Lake sat up and glanced over. Slowenski was leaning against the group of tires, looking perfectly at peace, reading his Bible as if it were a New York Times bestseller.

"Is that a fucking Bible?" he asked, almost laughing.

"HEY!" Atkins smacked him upside the head, "Show some respect, will ya? It's the Holy Bible, stupid."

"It's alright, Atkins," replied Slowenski casually, "I get that all the time."

"Why the hell do you read it all the time, man?" Lake asked, "I mean, seriously, it's not like the thing was written yesterday. There are a lot more interesting books in the world."

"I grew up off this book," the Delta Two gunner explained, "My parents were old-time Catholic church-goers, and they always wanted me and my kid sister to be the same. I was home-schooled as long as I can remember, got taught all sorts of stuff about religion and theological values. And every night, before I went to bed, my dad would have me write down a passage from the Bible, from beginning to end. I must have written down the entire Bible by the time I finished home school."

"So why you in the army then?" asked a curious Atkins.

Slowenski shrugged. "I wanted to see the world, and missionary work wasn't appealing to me. I figured the army was a good chance to do some real good in the world. I signed up for Delta because I wanted to fight with the best."

The Delta Three machine gunner smiled. A real Christian. It was so rare to come across one of those these days. That's what made Ski likeable around here.

"Well, I signed up 'cause I needed a good job and the pay was good," Lake said in reply, laying down with his hands behind his back, "Any idiot can fight in the army, but it takes warrior skill to take on Delta. That's why I'm telling you to stop worrying, Atkins, we're doing fi-"

He suddenly stopped himself. Sitting up, he then sat still, as if something had just struck him odd. Atkins and Slowenski exchanged confused glances.

"You guys hear that?" asked Lake.

The other two listened. Sure enough, it sounded like a loud stomping from down the street, coming right towards them. Whatever it was, it was big. Then, through the night air, they could've sworn they heard a low growl-

"Staaaaars."

The three looked up. Coming down the street, carrying the Gatling Gun and Rocket Launcher with relative ease and looking increasingly deadly, was the green monster Delta Two had encountered earlier.

"What-the-fuck is that?" whispered Atkins slowly.

"Oh my God… that's that thing we ran into. It almost flattened Sarge when it came down from the sky," Slowenski realized.

"Motherfucker looks like it takes a shitload of bullets," Lake came in with.

The monster roared a loud one that sent shivers down their spines. It woke up Pettigrew, whom had been sleeping in the cab of the first Humvee. He looked out the window and his eyes went wide as he saw the creature.

"Sweet Jesus…" he gasped, and, quite panicked, he turned the car on. The headlights flashed right at the creature, right into its eyes, and it roared again and raised its rocket launcher.

"Aw, shit."

-----

Arnold and Waters picked their heads up when they heard the sound of the Humvees turning on.

"What the hell?" Arnold threw his cigarette onto the floor, grabbed his M-4, and stormed out, Waters following.

When they got outside, they froze. All three Humvees were started, and the front one-Pettigrew's- headlights were fixed on a large green monster with enough weaponry to mow down an entire battalion of men.

"What the fuck is that?" Arnold demanded.

On first glance, Waters instantly recognized it. Of course, it wasn't hard to forget; you really can't an appearance like the one this thing had.

"Sonuva… how'd he find us?" he asked.

"You know each other?" asked Arnold, his M-4 trained on the monster.

"Not by first name basis," the other sergeant explained, "but you could say he 'dropped in' on us earlier."

The monster roared. Suddenly, Atkins, Lake, and Slowenski burst out of their hiding spot, firing their weapons. Atkins and Slowenski pelted it with the heavy machine gun bullets, covering Lake as he charged for his Humvee. Their guns fired in three-round bursts, jerking with each squeeze of the trigger, but the two machine gunners held firm until Lake barreled into the last Humvee, which Mabrey had started up.

"Shit! Punch it!" Lake shouted.

"Ski, GO!" Atkins yelled. Slowenski, big man that he was, lowered his machine gun and trudged over to Humvee #3. Atkins followed not far behind, emptying the last quarter of the box into the creature.

It took all the bullets they fired at it; blood spurting out from beneath its jacket and to the ground, but it took no visible damage, nor showed any sign of pain. Instead, it growled, and raised its Gatling Gun square at the teams.

"Oh, shit," Arnold said softly, then louder, "EVERYBODY DOWN!"

The Gatling Gun opened up, bullets firing; probably three thousand rounds a second. They smashed the windows to pieces, they reduced the walls to nothingness. In about thirty seconds, the gun had turned the Gas Station into a pile of rubble.

Arnold and Waters, both on the ground as close as they could to the vehicles, were both amazed at the amount of firepower this maniac had. The Gatling Gun must've weighed about 100 pounds, but it didn't even flinch when it had fired. Nor did the Rocket Launcher make things difficult for it. Whatever this thing was, it had phenomenal strength and an incredible sense of recovery. This was a foe they neither had the skill nor the equipment to defeat.

"Get to the Jeep! Start it up!" Arnold shouted, "I'll draw fire from this son of a bitch!"

Waters got up and sprinted towards the Jeep. The other sergeant got up and, taking careful aim, fired a round into where its heart should've been. The round entered, spurting more blood out, but it just stared coldly at him as he fired round after round, into its gut, chest, kneecaps, arms-

It raised its Rocket Launcher single handedly. Arnold, aiming down his sights, gulped upon seeing the weapon aimed right at him.

"Aw, shi-!"

It was a slow-mo thing. As the rocket fired, Arnold kicked his legs out from under him and fell onto his back. He watched the rocket fly over him and slam into what remained of the Gas Station and slam into it with a deafening BOOM! It sent bricks and debris flying through the air, landing everywhere from fifty feet away to directly on top of the Delta Three sergeant. He coughed and sputtered out the dirt that had been kicked up and landed in his mouth.

"SAM! MOVE!"

Waters fired several .50 caliber bullets, which, again, tore into him with little damage. That did it for Arnold. Anything that could take a heavy .50 bullet and not get torn apart by it just wasn't worth the hassle of shooting at. He got up and barreled into the driver's seat of the Jeep and slammed his feet on the breaks.

It and the Humvees tore out of there just as another rocket destroyed the gas tanks. Those went up in a fiery inferno, sending a shockwave tearing through the ground. From behind them, they could hear the monster cry, "STAAAAARS!" once last time.

It could've been worse; at least all of their men were safe and their vehicles undamaged. But Arnold had a feeling next time wouldn't be so lucky. Just mere minutes ago, he was having trouble staying awake. Now he was wired with fear and adrenaline. That thing had scared him, regardless of everything he thought he knew. It scared him in a way that he didn't think he'd ever sleep again.

Through the rear-view window, he looked back at the now inflamed Gas Station, which through another explosion into the air, and thought back to the nap he was supposed to have taken.

"Screw it," he muttered to himself, "Game called on account of shitty situations."

That's it.

If you want the other side of the Sullivan/Mac convo, go to Jamie Gartland's To The Last Man Down, V2, which this story is now being written somewhat in collation with.

And no, I know you're thinking it, but the scene with Arnold and the rocket was NOT inspired from that scene from Black Hawk Down. I assure you, I wasn't even thinking about it when I came up with it.

Review please.