Chapter Eleven? Seriously? Hot damn.

I think I've gone longer with this then with the original. Old readers, I only went to, what, eight on last one?

Nice…

Anyhoo, XTonberryX, sorry, but Delta Eight's gonna have to be next chapter, because this chapter needs to do some other team. I think everyone's been waiting to hear about this one. Also, e-mail, so I can actually help with your story. That would be nice.

Jamie Gartland- I have handwritten the meeting chapter. Now I need to type and send, so I'll do that soon.

Enjoy.

Chapter Eleven: Fire Party

It was now broad daylight in the streets of Raccoon City. The creatures were everywhere, stumbling around the streets, looking as though they were sleepwalking. From the air, it didn't look like anyone was alive, save for the Umbrella forces and their own convoy.

But from the basement of one of the buildings, this proved not to be so. For as one of the dogs stalked by, sniffing its food source out, a pair of eyes peaked out from the cracked window. A pair of gray, battle-hardened eyes; the eyes of a soldier.

The eyes belonged to Sergeant Joe Sanderson, of Delta Five.

-----

"Four Five going-"

But before Howe could finish the transmission, the rotors clipped the entry to the alley. The chopper skidded through the alley and then plowed into the ground cockpit first. It skidded to the other end of the alley and smashed through the brick wall, then came to a halt, the rotors either torn up by shrapnel or torn up by the crash.

Sanderson opened his eyes, having not even realized he had closed them, and exhaled, having not even realized he had been holding his breath. He sat there for about ten minutes, he didn't even know how long it was. Next to him, Hallings was inhaling and exhaling heavily. But they were alive, and with no apparent injuries. That was a miracle in itself, especially for a Little Bird crash.

"Shit, Sarge… now a bad time to ask for a furlough?" asked Hallings.

"Shut up," Sanderson snapped, pulling himself out of the destroyed bird.

He got on his feet and tested for broken bones just as Shipley and Bielski made their way over, covered in trash from their own little daredevil stunt.

"That's the last fucking time I ever follow one of your bright ideas," grumbled Shipley, as he pulled a banana peel off his shoulder, "'Drop into the fucking dumpster,' what the fuck was that shit?"

"Well, if you had another idea, you shoulda said it," Bielski argued back, "But seeing as how we were about to crash into a building, I don't think we had too many options to go by."

"Can it, both of you," Sanderson snapped, "This is a serious situation. No time for your bullshit."

Hallings came up, on stand-by with his SAW. The two snipers also took a knee and prepared for anything that came their way. Sanderson, once fully sure they had a good defense up, went up to check the cock-pit.

The front end of the bird was a complete mess. It had been crumpled up by the impact of the ground, the windshield was broken, and the controls were wrecked. The two pilots were sitting upright in their chairs, blood dripping from their mouths, noses, and ears.

Sanderson leaned in and checked Howe's pulse. No response. The pilot was KIA. Sanderson cursed.

"Damn it-"

The second he said that, all of a sudden, Wilkes snapped up in his chair and breathed deep. Sanderson leapt back, scared out of his wit, but calmed down when he realized it was just the co-pilot. Wilkes groaned.

"Jesus Christ on a bike…" he moaned, "How long have I been out?"

"Not long. We crashed about ten, fifteen minutes ago," said Sanderson, "How do you feel?"

"Like shit," the co-pilot answered, trying to move but wincing and going back into his former position, "My legs hurt real bad, and my head's dizzy. My back feels like it's asleep, but it hurts when I move."

Sanderson cursed again. The pilot was fucked up to all sorts of hell. From what he gathered, Wilkes had broken legs, a broken back, and he also had a concussion. It was funny how that worked out. How the pilot is killed and the co-pilot horribly mangled, but nothing bad happens to the other passengers. One of those karma kind of things, he guessed.

Wilkes was now trying to get the chopper's radio to start working. He didn't even get static to signal no reception. It was just plain old dead.

"It's…it's not working," he gasped, his voice hoarse.

From around the corner, there came a series of low, bone-chilling moans and groans. Hallings, in nervousness, swung his SAW to face the corner.

"The fuck is that?" he exclaimed.

Sanderson didn't want to think about it, but he knew. Whatever was giving those guys hell back at the LZ was coming their way. And by the sounds of the moans, there were lots of them. And now, he could hear the barking of dogs in between. A large force was headed their way, and they didn't have enough men to hold out for long.

There was a" slap!" and the sound of a bolt being pulled back and released. Wilkes had whipped out his MP-5k submachine pistol and loaded a fresh magazine into it. Then he pulled out his 9mm, cocked the hammer, and held it in his other hand.

"Sandy, get your team the hell out of here!" he shouted, "I'll hold them off, buy you enough time!"

"Bullshit, we're not leaving you here!" Sanderson stated firmly.


"The hell you aren't!" Wilkes argued back, "I'm not going anywhere. I'm in too much pain; you'd kill me just carrying me up the block. And it would leave you guys exposed to carry a body from one place to another. You're better off just taking your team and getting as far away from here as you can!"

"Wilkes-"

"SANDY, JUST GO, GODDAM IT!"

Sanderson didn't know what to do. Leaving the pilot to his fate was not something he would enjoy doing. But he didn't want his men dying here with him. What Wilkes said was true. Had he had about three extra men with him, they might've stood a chance. But not four. That would leave about two or three carrying him and one to defend. Wilkes was accepting that he wasn't going to make it out of this. That was war. Some guys just knew they wouldn't be going home.

"HERE THEY COME!"

From around the corner, hundreds of civilians stumbled towards their wrecked bird. Sanderson couldn't help but recoil at how dead these people looked. Their skin was pale, their eyes were lifeless, and a nasty stench emitted from them, like they had bathed themselves in onions.

Delta Five proceeded to fire, but their bullets, which hit them all in the chest, had no lasting effect. Sanderson had known it was pointless, but this was friggin' ridiculous. They should have at least died when they were shot. Not keep stumbling towards them like a bunch of drunken idiots shrugging off a light punch.

There was no point in staying where they were. They had to pull out. But moving Wilkes, in his condition, was bringing death to the co-pilot, who was now emptying the remainder of his clip into the crowd.

"SANDY! NOW!" he screamed, jamming a new clip in, "PLEASE! JUST GO!!"

That did it. He had to pull them out. Sanderson stood up.

"Fall back! Let's go!" he shouted.

Hallings covered Shipley and Bielski as they twirled around and fell back to the tail of the bird. As the machine-gunner followed them, Wilkes gave one last shout-out to Sanderson as he left:

"Get them out, Sandy… Save everyone that you can."

-----

Sanderson remembered Wilkes last words as he watched their enemy prowl around. The co-pilot had been right. They had to get the hell out of this city.

"We gotta go," he said, hopping down off the table and turning to his three teammates, "We gotta go now."

"Hang on, I'm almost done."

Shipley was sitting with one leg crossed over the other. He held his helmet in one hand and a yellow marker in the other, and he was writing something on his helmet, deep in concentration.

"Shit, Shipley, can't that wait?" demanded Hallings.

"Nope. Old lady's orders, I think of a name, I write it down right away so I don't forget it. When I get home, I'll have enough names to name the next ten kids."

"You mean, if you get home."

Shipley glanced up towards Hallings.

"No, I mean when," he said firmly, "Boy, if you think I'm dyin' in this rat hole, you got another think comin'."

Bielski grinned and chuckled. Hallings turned away as Shipley finished up, capped the marker, put it in his vest pocket, then placed his helmet on his head and fastened it.

"Aiight, let's get movin'. We ain't got all day," he declared, grabbing his M-21.

Bielski kicked down the door and covered the street while Sanderson and Shipley ran across. Then he and Hallings made their move while the other two covered them.

The city was a complete mess. Messier than most, in any case. Cars were crashed into all sorts of places, some in positions the team never knew cars could go in. Windows were smashed, doors were blown open…everywhere they looked showed signs of complete pandemonium.

"Goddam…" Bielski shook his head, "This looks worse than that time in Turkey, huh, Sarge?"

"Yeah," Sanderson answered, examining a dead body on the ground that had been chewed to pieces, "This is worse. These people look like they got eaten, not gassed."

He nudged the head with his foot, when suddenly, the dead's eyes flew open and it bolted upwards. The four Delta soldiers jumped back and aimed their weapons at the dead person as it got up off the floor.

"Mother…" Shipley couldn't finish.

It looked straight at them and lunged. BAM! Sanderson quickly fired his Beretta pistol into its head. The bullet plowed right in and right out, taking anything in the middle with it. It jerked backwards, and then fell back to the ground, truly dead.

The D-Boys stood around, nudging the body with their rifles. This time, nothing happened. Shipley whistled.

"Well, I ain't never heard of nothing like this," he declared.

"I don't think any of us have, Jeff," Bielski replied, "What the hell's going on in this city?"

"I don't know," answered Sanderson, "but I think our first priority is getting to the LZ. They might still need our help."

"Daylight's up. You sure they're still around?" Hallings asked.

"Yeah, I'm sure."

"Well, shit, what we waiting for, then?" Shipley began walking towards where they thought the LZ to be, "Boys ain't gonna hold out forever without us. Let's-"

As he moved, there was a BANG! and a bullet missed his foot by mere inches. It was enough to send the Delta sniper flying backwards and behind one of the cars.

"Holy shit! There's a fucking sniper out there!" he proclaimed.

As those words left his mouth, there came a barrage of bullets from another sector. Several men in green uniforms and wielding M-4 semi-automatics were shooting at them from further down the street. The remaining three D-Boys sought cover behind the wrecked cars.

"Who the fuck is that, and why the hell are they shooting at us?" Sanderson demanded, firing his CAR-15 at the opposing force.

Bielski aimed his customized CAR-15 at an enemy soldier who was busy reloading. He aimed carefully at the head, breathed out, and pulled. The bullet passed through his head, killing him in an instant.

"Got one down," the operator called.

Hallings kept getting up to fire three-round bursts and then slamming himself back down. Then he would wait a few seconds and repeat. He wasn't entirely sure he was hitting anything, but then again, was anybody ever sure, when the firing was this hot? He just kept doing his job, firing, ducking, repeating, until he noticed something off to his right.

A trio from the other troop, trying to flank them, their weapons ready. Without waiting or even thinking, the Delta operator aimed and fired his machine-gun at them. The bullets entered their skin, each one sending out a spray of blood upon impact. All three of them fell.

Sanderson fired three rounds and then ducked down for a reload. He ejected the empty clip from his weapon, grabbed a new one out of its pouch, and slammed it in. Then, he grabbed a grenade from his belt, and slid his finger through the pin.

"Frag out!" he called, pulling the pin and throwing the ball-shaped explosive over the cars and down to the opposing force.

Hallings pulled his SAW off the car hood and ducked next to Sanderson as the grenade detonated. Loose rocks and debris flew up and showered down upon the two operators.

Shipley fired his M1911 in one hand while trying to reload his M-21 with his other. This was something he always did, so to him, it was nothing. He fired at the closest targets, hoping to at least wound them until he got his rifle up and running. Once he did, he brought his sniper rifle to his shoulder and began taking concentrated shots. He couldn't miss. All he had to do was glance at a soldier, squeeze, and the man would drop. Missing a shot wasn't even in his vocabulary when he had the M-21 in his hands.

Sanderson peeked his head around the edge of the car. More of them were showing up to replace the ones they had downed. This was too much. As skilled as they were, four Delta operators couldn't last too long against an un-numbered force. They'd run out of ammo, and it was too early in the game to be out now. He moved back behind the car, and, getting up tall enough for his men to see but not to get shot at, tapped his helmet with his hand. Shipley and Bielski made their way over to his and Hallings' position.

"Falling back, on my mark," he told them, "Hallings, lay down cover fire. Bielski, you're first. Shipley, you're right behind him. Hallings, you're with me. Alright, get ready."

Hallings lifted his SAW to his shoulder. Shipley slapped Bielski's shoulder as the latter got ready to sprint.

"COVERING FIRE!"

Hallings fired off a burst from his machine-gun. When he heard the loud rounds, Bielski jumped up and hauled ass over to the alleyway off to the right, jumping over the bodies of the dead soldiers that Hallings had gotten on his way through.

"Alright, Shipley, up!" Sanderson ordered. "COVERING FIRE!"

Hallings again fired another long burst from the SAW. Shipley crossed himself once, for good luck, and then sprinted just as fast as his friend had. Sanderson watched as bullets kicked dirt up all around his friend, while Shipley dodged them like a football player dodging other players on his way towards where Bielski was covering him. He breathed easier when he saw the sniper on the other side.

"Alright, Sarge, you go!" Hallings shouted.

"You be right behind me!" Sanderson ordered.

The machine-gunner fired off a third burst and this time both of them jumped up and ran through the machine-gun and small arms fire. Like Shipley before them, they twisted and turned every which way trying to avoid the bullets. This time, however, Sanderson's foot made contact with one of the dead soldiers and sent him sprawling onto the ground.

As he picked himself up off the ground, the world suddenly seemed to go in slow-mo, and lost the sound. He picked his head up and as he did, his sight turned upon the dead soldier. He examined the body for a time, curiosity overtaking him. The man was dressed in a green jacket, and on the back of the jacket was a giant umbrella with two swords sticking through it and four letters above it…

"SARGE! LET'S MOVE!"

Hallings dropped down and grabbed his sergeant and pulled both of them behind the wall, just in time to dodge the next barrage of bullets.

The four D-Boys kept moving, wanting to put as much distance between themselves and their attackers as they could, at least, until they had enough men to launch a decent counterattack. Bielski led the way, his CAR-15 at arms length, aiming right before backing left through an alleyway. Shipley copied the movement and followed, and then Sanderson and Hallings did the same.

At last, they stopped for a breather. Shipley reached into his back pocket, pulled out his canteen, and unscrewed the top. Taking a sip, he turned his head to his team leader.

"So what now?" he asked.

"Those guys…" Sanderson looked back in the direction they had come. The insignia on the back of their jackets…there was only one explanation.

"Those guys were Umbrella."

Hallings, who had been bent over, catching his breath, snapped his head back up.

"You mean the Umbrella Corporation?" he asked, "I thought they only made medicines."

"You sure, how do you know?" Bielski asked.

"You mean aside from the giant umbrella on the back of their jackets and the letters 'U.B.C.S.' printed on them?" the sergeant said sarcastically.

"Shit," Shipley spit onto the ground calmly, "I thought we were workin' together on this one. Why you think they were sore at us?"

Sanderson shook his head. "I dunno, but they made a big mistake," he said, "When we get to the LZ, we need to take it up with whoever's in charge over there that their boys are wandering around shooting at random people and-"

"Wait, hold on a sec…"

Bielski held up his finger. The Delta Ops. stood in complete silence and listened.

Through the dawn air, they could hear the sound of vehicles driving at mid-speed. By the sound, they were heavily armored trucks, a lot of them, probably a full convoy. They were inching along for the most part, and by the sounds of things, they were taking a lot of fire.

"You think that's Delta Three's boys?" questioned Bielski.

"Only way to find out," Sanderson stated, "Delta Five, on me."

He sped off in the direction of the convoy, the rest of his men trailing directly behind him. The sound got close and closer with every step. The only thing on Sanderson's mind was hope that this was Delta Three with the vehicles, maybe even with the rest of the Delta guys, and they could roll up and get the hell out of this city, where the dead walked and dogs had no skin.

The noise was closer now, and they could distinctly make out the number of trucks and Humvees that were mixed in with the group. There were a lot of them, probably more than were used in the Mogadishu battle. Suddenly, Sanderson was suspicious. If it was there convoy, they sure had found more than just three Humvees and a Jeep. They turned the corner, and then he stopped. But not with relief.

"Get down!" he hissed.

The men going with the convoy, although they wore different uniforms- black, tactical vests- and had different weapons- Tavor TAR-21s-, the giant umbrella on the back of their vests proved they were still Umbrella soldiers. There were about a company's worth, maybe more, maybe less. The shooting was being directed at those things, the ones back at the crash site, with no attention paid to the now-behind-cover Delta soldiers.

"Think they're the same ones?" asked Hallings

Shipley was peering through his M-21's scope, surveying the enemy troops.

"Uniform's different, but Umbrella's Umbrella, no matter how you look it," he said to them.

"Well, what do we do?"

Sanderson glared at the Umbrella soldiers. Their enemy was whatever the hell these things were, and yet they still felt it their job to shoot at them as well. And what of any other Delta soldier that was out there, until the false assumption that this was a co-op assignment? They would probably get slaughtered.

Well, if that was the way they were going to play, then that's how they would play.

"Alright," he turned to the others, "We hit 'em. Sporadic fire all along the line, and concentrated sniper fire on the gunners. Hit them hard, get in close enough to throw grenades. That'll slow them down."

"Sarge, you sure?" Bielski asked uncertainly, "We could just skip them and keep going to the LZ-"

"What, and have them butcher the next Delta team they come across?"

"What about rules of engagement?" Hallings questioned.

"Hallings," Sanderson glared at him long and hard, "We're already engaged."

Shipley and Bielski nodded. They had been shot at first. Anything they did after that, however serious it may be or however many people were killed or wounded, was purely in self-defense. These guys had fucked with the wrong Special Ops. unit.

"OK, two snipers move to your positions. Hallings, when I give the word, you open up with that SAW. Move fast, move hard; give them something to really worry about. Go."

The four Delta soldiers moved into their positions. Shipley and Bielski moved in from behind, the former taking a knee, the other going prone, both picking their targets carefully. Hallings crawled in from the right and settled himself in with some trash, ready to shoot. Sanderson got behind a corner and carefully peered out. The Umbrella boys had no idea they were there. Complete surprise.

He glanced over at Hallings and swiftly made a motion with his hand to open up.

Hallings opened fire, the heavy machine-gun bullets tearing large holes through their vehicles. The mercenaries, in complete surprise, dove to the ground and tore like hell behind some decent cover. The Delta gunner never took his finger off the trigger. They weren't small bursts anymore; it was just full-on, relentless fire.

One of the Umbrella machine-gunners turned his gun onto the source of their assaulters. He located the gunner, buried in the rubble, shooting what appeared to be an M-249. His thought was to shoot to wound, just to get information on why he was shooting.

That was the last thing to pass through his mind before the bullet did.

Shipley looked through his scope as his headshot dropped the man right out of his turret, then turned his weapon on the others and started firing.

Sanderson fired three shots, then reached for his belt and pulled another grenade out. Hallings stopped firing for a second and did the same.

"GRENADE!"

Both explosives were thrown into the besieged Umbrella convoy. When they saw it, the other men tried to get out of their as fast as they could right before it blew up. Rock and debris was thrown up from one grenade, and the second explosion sent a Humvee going up in flames.

The convoy was soon in smoke. It was hard to tell whether or not there were any targets left to shoot at. Bielski and Shipley only fired when they were sure they would hit someone, but the smoke was so great that it was rarely so.

Sanderson figured it was time they split. They had done their damage. But there was still one more thing.

"LAW up!" he shouted to the machine-gunner.

Hallings had a LAW 80 strapped to his back that he brought along as a just-in-case. The rocket launcher was very light, extendable with flip-down sights, and could only be fired once. When he heard the news, Hallings got up and un-strapped it from his back. Flipping down the sights, he aimed through them towards one of the surviving trucks.

When he fired, the rocket made a loud WHOOSH! sound. It seemed like slow-mo again as Sanderson watched the rocket eject from its tube, whiz through the air, then plow through the smoke, and, seconds later, score another fiery mushroom cloud and deafening explosion.

They had done their jobs.

"Alright, Delta Five! Fall back!" he shouted, getting up and running back to their original alleyway.

His three men followed right behind him. At the same time behind them, the leader of one of those Umbrella teams, one of the only ones not to suffer a casualty, was pulling his team and the remains of the other one out of the smoking, twisted remains. But the D-Boys didn't look back. They kept moving forward, weapons ready for encounter, towards the LZ, their blood pumping and their spirits high.

They were back in the game.

Nice.

Alright, next chapter re-joins Delta Eight. Stay tuned.

Review please.