Tales From the Necropolis

by Jammer69er

Witness the destruction of Raccoon City from the viewpoint of its various citizens. Runs parallel to my other story, 'The Fall of Raccoon'. On hiatus.

11. Something to Die For

Chapter 11: Something to Die For

September 27th 1542 hours

On the outskirts of Raccoon City's downtown region, nearly thirty bodies littered the tarmac leading towards an overpass bridge about 300 yards away. All of the corpses showed signs of having fallen victim to the unnatural plague which had ravaged the streets, as well as evidence of having been shot through the head, many of them looking as though a sledgehammer had been taken to their skulls, blood and brain matter pooling in fetid puddles all across the street.

From around the corner of a store at the side of the road, another zombie shambled out into view, this one being a fairly tall woman with red hair, her black jeans badly ripped and her blue shirt sodden through with blood, bile and other fluids. Her jaw hung slackly, in danger of dropping off completely. She began to walk along the tarmac, her steps uneven, and she stumbled more than once in trying to step over the fallen bodies.

The thing that had gotten her attention happened to be the bright blazing lights that emanated from the overpass ahead- as had the loud cracking sounds from beforehand, clear evidence of fresh meat in these accursed Necropolis.

CRACK!

The high-sounded retort of a sniper rifle was heard, and then the women's head exploded into a cloud of blood and stinking gore, her body dropping amongst the others a few moments later. Loud whooping was heard a short while later.

"I got another one!"

"Good work son!" cried another voice, and the sound of laughter and high-fiving could be heard from the direction of the overpass, where two pairs of powerful free-standing floodlights could be seen, casting their glare down the road.

On top of the bridge three figures had gathered, all dressed in the clothing of outdoorsmen, including jeans, hiking boots and orange reflective hunter vests. Each of them carried a Sako S75 bolt action rifle, a large crate of spare ammunition laid out at their feet.

"So what does that make the tally now?" asked the man who had made the killing shot, a well-built figure in his early thirties, with dark brown hair and a five-o-clock shadow.

"Well that makes 12 for you now, son," replied the man's father, a figure in his late fifties wearing a black plaid shirt and a red cap that shielded his green eyes from the afternoon sun. He held a small chalkboard and a piece of white chalk, etching another white line next to the name 'Samson'. "But that means you still have a long ways to go to beat my record, son," he then added, pointing to the 20 tally lines beside the name 'Harry'. And at the very bottom, only four lines were etched next to the final name, 'Ruben'.

"Well there's still plenty more of those freaks wandering about," retorted Samson. "I say bring it on!"

A father and two sons, all from the Nichols family, well-known within the Cider District for their love of big game hunting, and anything else that involved shooting guns, even if the R.P.D didn't always agree with their 'hobbies'. When everything had gone to hell the day previous, they had been amongst those who had fought against the zombies swarming through the district during the morning and into the afternoon, but even they couldn't help and in the end the barricades were overrun.

Somehow they had wound up on this overpass bridge, their battered red pick-up truck parked a few dozen yards away down the street, overlooking one of the main avenues that lead into the heart of the Cider District. They had driven one big circle today, after running into countless dead ends, most of the roads leading out of town blocked off by car wrecks of other random debris. And with no other options available to them, Harry had proposed an impromptu 'shooting competition', with the countless zombies choking the roads as the prey. The floodlights, and the crate of firecrackers beside them, were intended to draw the zombies in- bright lights and loud noises seemed to draw them in like bees to honey.

It was certainly a lot easier than hunting deer or bears, for one. Those zombies were so slow and stupid that getting a kill shot first time was easy as pie. And as Samson also noted, it was perhaps the closest you could get to actually hunting human beings without being arrested and thrown in jail. And since the police were in no shape to do anything about it...the hunt was on.

"Well there's sure to be plenty more of those fuckers to go around," replied Harry, laying his rifle across the concrete rim of the overpass and peering down the scope, watching intently as blood continued to leak out from the ruptured skull of the red-headed woman his son had just sniped moments before. "Just need to lure a few more of them out," he then added, reaching down and producing a set of firecrackers. He then passed them over to his son, who lit the fuse at one end, and then tossed them down onto the road below, where after a few more moments, they erupted into a series of popping and crackling noises, bright bursts of light illuminating the scene below.

"Oh yeah, come on out, baby!" laughed Samson, firing his rifle into the air for good measure. And once more zombies had come into view, it was time to add to his scoring tally once again.

To his right through, his younger brother, Ruben, remained silent as if glued to his sniper scope. A rather frail-looking figure in his early twenties with light brown hair and green eyes, Ruben hated the fact they were doing this, rather than trying to get out of the city. Sure, these zombies may have been soulless monsters now, but they were human beings once: men, women and children with lives, and friends, and jobs, and families before this whole mess started.

He still couldn't get past the fact that the first zombie he had killed was a little girl with her blonde hair in pigtails and wearing a blue party dress. It didn't matter that one side of her neck had been chewed off and her eyes were just pale marbles, but he still felt a hard twinge when he had shot her through the head at 20 yards with a Colt S.A.A revolver, blowing her brains out in a fountain of gore and skull fragments.

Not even his brother's congratulations could bring him out of his despair, though to be frank his brother had never been one to support him through life; nor his father, too wrapped up in their damned hunting and shooting competitions to take any notice of his feelings. Listening to the way he was thinking now, most wouldn't put him in the same basket as the men from the Nichols family. But then again, Ruben had always been his own character, not following with family tradition.

Speaking of which, he glanced over towards where his brother and father peered through their scopes once more, laughing amongst themselves still. He loathed them for forcing him into this, when he knew fine well there were a million other places they could be, rather than out here, shooting and partying like it were some cause for celebration. Too many people they knew from the Cider District had died already- friends and neighbours, good people.

And he hadn't heard from his girlfriend, Jessie, ever since the previous day either. She could be somewhere safe, could already have gotten out of town- or she might have been still walking around somewhere, either as a human or one of...those...things.

He shuddered just thinking that.

"Looks like old Ruben's still got quite a ways to go though, huh?" said Samson suddenly, turning to face his little brother.

"Eh, same as always Ruben," chuckled Harry, "miles behind your old man and brother."

"I don't care about winning," was all Ruben said in response, continuing to scan the street they were watching over through his scope.

"Oh come, on, little man!" laughed Samson in a mocking tone, "you're never gonna be a big shot unless you have a little competition in your bones, ha!" He then turned back towards the figure of his father, a smile playing on his lips. "Ain't that right, dad?"

Ruben didn't pay too much attention to what was said next, though it was probably the same old bullshit he had to contend with on a daily basis, about how he wasn't fit to hold the Nichols name, that kind of thing. He instead squinted down his scope when yet another figure came into view from down the street, a man in dark pants and jacket, wearing a white shirt underneath, along with black dress shoes. He walked slowly, glancing back and forth every now and then. He didn't display any of the lethargic movements associated with the undead.

Shit! Is that someone else still alive?

The figure continued along the street, towards where the zombie corpses carpeted the tarmac. He slowed down upon approach, seemingly horrified by the scene before him. Ruben adjusted his scope magnification, and his sight closed in on the man, close enough to see his expression, to see the dirt and sweat smeared across his face. He was a human, that much was certain.

He lowered his rifle, turning to tell his family about this discovery-

CRACK!

The retort of a rifle screamed through the silence, almost causing him to leap out his skin, closely followed by a very human shriek of agony. He quickly glanced through his scope again, seeing the man lying on his side now, hands grabbing at the shredded flesh where his right knee used to be, blood streaming out onto the tarmac, leaving a burgundy puddle beneath his sprawled form. He turned to his right, to see Samson looking down his scope.

"Damn, missed the kill shot," he muttered, sounding disappointed. Needless to say, Ruben was disgusted to hear that.

"What the hell are you talking about?" he demanded, angrily. "That wasn't a zombie, that was a goddamn human being!"

"So what?" snorted Samson. "Haven't you read the rules? Humans are worth double points!" he added callously, before reaching for the board and preparing to scratch some more tally lines on next to his name.

"Double points?" spluttered Ruben, almost turning red with rage. "This isn't one of your little hunting games, Samson! This is life and death!" He turned towards Harry, who only remained glued to his scope, his face impassive throughout his son's debate. "Dad! Why the hell aren't you saying anything?"

"Ruben!" barked his father angrily, turning to face his youngest son with a harsh look upon his face. His rifle was aimed down the street, just like Samson's. His brow was furrowed in an angry expression as he spoke up again. "We're doing this to survive. You know that. We can't afford to take any chances."

"But he wasn't even armed!"

"Can't afford to take any chances," replied Harry. "You two are the only family I have left now, and I'm not going to let anybody, zombie or otherwise, take that away from me."

Ruben looked back and forth between Harry and Samson, the latter having a rather creepy smile on his face. He began to shake his head slowly. "You've lost it. You've both lost it."

"Lost it?" asked Samson, turning on his younger brother. "You ever read the Constitution, Ruben? Second Amendment: right to bear arms!"

"That's right son," agreed Harry, "we're just expressing our constitutional right to defend ourselves when our home is in danger."

"AAHHHHH, IT HURTS!" screamed the man with the wounded leg form down the street, showing that he was indeed still alive. He writhed in agony on the tarmac, before trying to claw his way forward towards some semblance of cover, though the fact a large puddle of blood had now pooled beneath him showed that he didn't have much steam left in him, and he settled on just rolling onto his back.

"Damn it!" cursed Ruben, feeling his anxiety spike.

"Here's your chance boy," said Harry suddenly, not looking up from his scope.

"Chance for what?" asked an exasperated Ruben.

"To prove that you're a man," responded Harry. "To show that you're a Nichols man through-and-through."

"What? You don't mean"-

"This kill's all yours, Ruben," said Samson, lowering his rifle. "You finish him off, and then you can show that you're a true man."

"But"-

"No but's, Ruben!" barked Harry harshly. "He's right there in front of you! Take the damned shot and show your old man just what you're capable of!"

"Go on Ruben, show us what you can do," taunted Samson in a soft voice. Ruben looked over at them for a few more moments, and then when he realised they were deadly serious, he quickly turned back and raised his rifle to eye level, eye pushed against the scope.

The screams of agony had faded away to nothing now, the bleeding from the man's leg having just reduced to light streams now as he neared death. He seemed to be trying to form words with his mouth, but at this distance it was impossible to discern anything. Ruben set the sights over the man's torso, his aim wavering due to his stressed breathing.

"Go on Ruben, you can do it," urged Samson's voice. "It's a clear shot; no wind...no other distractions, nothing to worry about."

"Do it son!" added Harry, his voice low and encouraging.

Ruben's sights were shaking even greater now, his heartbeat thundering in his ears as his world closed down to that one whimpering man focused within his viewing scope. His hands and brow were sweaty, and he could feel his grip on the wood slipping.

"Shoot him!"

"He's right in front of you!"

"A five year old could make that shot!"

Ruben's shaking was so bad now he was sure he'd drop the rifle then and there, but his family's taunts and urging statements were still in his ear hole constantly. Peer pressure was always drummed into his head by his mother as the worst kind of pressure to be put under; and now that she was no longer here, the full brunt of his brother's and father's pressure was bearing down on him.

"Do it!"

He pulled the trigger.

CRACK!

The round missed by a few yards, pinging harmlessly off of the tarmac beside the man instead. From beside Ruben, Samson shook his head.

"Knew you didn't have the bottle," was all he said, disappointed, before raising his own rifle to eye level and firing. Blood erupted from the man's torso, and he shuddered badly, before finally laying still, blood pouring from the ragged wound in his chest. Ruben just stared dumbfounded.

"See Ruben?" said Harry mockingly. "You brother can get the job done when its required, no questions asked, no hesitation. He ended that man's misery right then- better than you ever could have." Samson gave his little brother a knowing smirk, glad to receive the seal of approval from his father.

"Shut up, just shut up," muttered Ruben as he peered down his scope again. He could see more zombies emerging into the street now, drawn out by the commotion no doubt. He set his sights over the face of an elderly, hunched gentlemen and squeezed the trigger.

CRACK!

The man crumpled to the tarmac, half of his head blown apart. A few seconds later, a teenage boy wearing a basketball vest followed a similar fate, shot through the right eye.

"Hey hey, looks like Ruben's grown a pair at last, dad!" laughed Samson as he hastily added two etches on the board beside Ruben's name, and then a third as his younger brother dropped a third freak that looked in danger of wasting away on the spot.

Focusing on the wasted people was the only way that Ruben could take his mind off the anger that threatened to make him turn around and smash Samson's face in, or blow it off with his rifle.

---

Everything had been out of focus, flowing as though she were wading through a sea of treacle. Since she had first encountered the police officers, Max and Grayson, the former level-headed and calm, while the latter was on the verge of having a nervous breakdown, screaming and raging at everything around him.

And then he had finally snapped and shot his partner dead, before trying to do the same with her. She still saw his face in her mind, leering over her, covered in sweat, dirt and blood, threatening to blow her brains out, insisting that it would be for the best. But thankfully some intervention had saved her hide and left him nursing a nasty bite wound- doomed to become one of 'them' and leaving him to blow his own brains out.

'-you'll always have my face engraved into your brain whenever you close your eyes.'

"How you holding up?"

She glanced upwards into the bearded face of her saviour, noting the concern etched on her face. She felt somewhat anxious about being around a total stranger, considering what had just happened, but he had saved her from sharing the fate of her work colleagues, and he had offered nothing but kindness towards her, so perhaps she should trust him a little more.

"I-I'm fine," she stuttered, "it's just that"-

"I know," he replied, moving over and kneeling down in front of her, taking a hold of her wrists and examing the scrapes that she had sustained earlier.

No, no you don't actually know what I'm feeling right now! She thought ratherly bitterly as he continued his examination. Her skin was red and inflamed, small pieces of gravel embedded within a few deeper scrapes. "Here, let me take a look, he added," furrowing his brow. "Miss-?"

"Kelly," she replied, offering him a weak smile.

"Steven," he replied, before gently probing at her forearm with his thumb.

Following their initial encounter a couple of hours back, they had found themselves in an abandoned warehouse attic which appeared to have been converted into a makeshift shelter by whoever had been living here previously, or by people that had come through here earlier. A battered-looking three-piece sofa and a pair of chairs served as seating, while a fold-out table was decorated with empty coffee mugs and candy wrappers, the wooden floorboards covered with a tattered green and red-patterned rug. It looked as though some other people had stopped here not too long ago, throwing an impromptu end-of-the-world party. To the far right, a set of windows looked out over what used to be Raccoon City.

"Hold on, this might sting a little," Steven warned as he produced a bottle of disinfectant that he had found in a nearby medicine cabinet and poured some into a white cloth, before he applied it to Kelly's arm. She winced visibly and bit her lower lip as the substance did its work, cleaning away any infection that could have taken hold since from when she took the fall initially.

"There we go," he continued, as he repeated the process with her other arm. Once the deed was done, he set the disinfectant aside and was careful to wipe down her arms and wrap the scrapes in some gauze bandages, just in case. She just watched him work throughout the entire process.

"You've got very soft hands," she said out of nowhere, prompting him to look at her in the eye. "Are you a doctor or something?" He smirked in response.

"No, nothing like that," he chuckled as he settled back into the seat opposite her, "just I have a lot of experience in taking care of scrapes and bruises: having two daughters who always played in the back garden meant there were quite a few tumbles."

"Daughters?" asked Kelly curiously. "Then...I guess you're not from Raccoon then?"

"No, no, thank God," he replied, pulling out a bronze-plated pocket watch and snapping it open. "I'm from England- I was only meant to be in town for work..." His voice trailed off as he looked down at the open locket. Curiously, Kelly rose to her feet and moved around behind him to see what he was examining so intently.

"Your family?" she asked, and he just nodded in response.

"I work for Umbrella," he explained, still focused on the picture. "In their finance department. I was in town for a meeting with their board of directors about the expenditures for this quarter...and then- well, you've seen what happened. One minute I was sat in the Apple Inn enjoying a drink, and then the next those things were smashing the doors and windows down."

"Guess you're wishing you took the day off then?" she asked, and he chuckled in response. "Mind you, I wish I did the same thing too. One minute I was at work as normal...and then the next those people were streaming in and killing anyone they could find."

"Zombies," stated Steven.

"What?"

"That's what they are," he replied, before adding quickly, "or rather, something close enough to that. Just like the things in the Biohazard movie series- except this isn't a movie." With that, he rose from his seat and crossed over to the windows, looking out across the burning city. "Hard to tell if there is any safe havens left in this place now...they're everywhere."

Kelly looked up briefly, and then lowered her head. "I know...I thought that when I saw those police officer I was safe, but I was such an idiot. He had a gun to my head, and was threatening to blow my brains out!" She stopped to give herself time to recompose herself, before continuing. "There wasn't anything I could do. And then he said it was my fault that he was doomed!"

"I'm sorry," said Steven, turning to face her. "If I had only got there sooner when I heard the commotion," he continued, with regret.

"-then he would have probably shot you too," Kelly replied, "and then you wouldn't have been able to save anyone in the first place."

"I guess you're right," he sighed, admitting the inevitable. "But right now, we need to worry about ourselves. From what we've both seen, it looks as though there aren't any safe places left. Even if we stay here they'll find us sooner or later."

"But we have to do something!" said Kelly, rising to her feet. "We can't just sit here and wait for them to come and finish us off!" Steven looked at her for a while, before he nodded slowly.

"OK," he then said, crossing over to pick up the blood-drenched fire axe that he had used to take the heads off of a few of those zombies on their way here. She wondered just what was going through his head when he did the deed: was he sick to the core at decapitating what used to be normal people, or whether he was indifferent to it all by now? The blood sprayed across the front of his shirt suggested so.

"You're right," he continued, looking out the window beside him once again. "If we keep moving those things won't have a chance to catch up to us. And besides, trying to find help is better than nothing at all." She nodded in agreement as he walked closer. "Look, whatever happens Kelly, just stay close to me, allright?"

"Sure, I'll stay close to you, Mr-doing-my-best-impression-of-Jack Nicholson-from-The Shining." He chuckled in response.

"Well if that's how you see me..." he began.

A new, unfamiliar sound cut him off, almost like something running across the roof above their heads. Kelly jumped visibly as she cast her eyes skywards, and Steven soon followed suit, clutching his fire axe tightly. The sound came again, this time crossing from the far corner of the loft, and back over their heads, forcing them to turn towards the bare brick wall behind where he was currently stood.

"What is that?" Kelly whispered voice hoarse from the anxiety.

"I don't know," replied Steven slowly, as the sounds crossed over his head again, towards the window, and he feared for the worst. He hefted the axe up and waiting for the unknown assailant to show itself. He peered up through the window, trying to see if there was anything waiting to crash through, but he could discern nothing. After several more moments, the sounds didn't come again, and relief filled the two survivors.

Steven allowed himself to breathe out finally and turned towards Kelly, his pulse returning to normal gradually. "Looks like it was a false alarm"-

The window behind him exploded.

---

Jessop knew he was on the right track when he found the dead bodies at the side of the trail he'd been following ever since waking up from the coach crash.

They were both members of the prison staff, dressed in white shirts and black pants. Most likely they were workers from the admin section, and they had both been shot through the head. One of them had died with his face locked into a pleading expression, eyes wide in fear and mouth open. It looked as though he'd been begging to be spared up until the moment of his death. Neither of them showed any sign of turning into one of those 'crazies'.

Shit! They're turning on each other!

His mind turned to Adams. That psychopathic white supremacist was well known for his sudden acts of violence, almost entirely when unprovoked as well. In fact he was only in the prison because he'd been caught in the middle of a disturbingly ritualistic butchering of a corpse. It was after that arrest he was linked to nearly 5 other deaths in the county, deaths he never admitted. But he never denied them either.

And to top it all off he'd been left with a Hispanic inmate, Hector. He wondered how much longer it would be before he found the inmate's body dumped in a ditch, shot in a similar manner, along with the rest of the survivors while the bastard saved his own skin.

He shook his head, knowing that this meant there were at least two deaths that could have been prevented, had he been a little faster in tracking the others down, if he hadn't been knocked out in that crash. He buried his head in his left hand and shook it, the fatigue and the pressure getting to him.

"Shit...what the hell can one man do?" he asked the empty forest. But there was nobody or anything left to answer him. He was entirely alone out here, at the mercy of the forest and whatever lurked just out of sight, waiting for him to fall before moving in to finish him. He could almost hear Warden Salt's voice in his head, advising him on how to do his job right, what he could improve on. For the first six months on the job, he seriously considered walking away on more than one occasion, but the warden had convinced him to stay with it. He owed James Salt so much.

And now he was dead. Plainview, Barges, Morales, Pierce- they were all dead and gone. He was the last one left.

No! I can't let their deaths be in vain!

He shook his head and stood up straight, knowing it would be a stain on the prison's reputation if its last surviving CO just gave up halfway through a cross-country pursuit. He had to find Adams and rein him in, and then lead the others to some semblance of safety, away from the chaos gradually engulfing the region.

He continued along the path, until he came across a wooden notice board standing at the side of the trail, beside a wooden bench for anyone passing through to use. He saw that it was bore the mark of the Raccoon County Tourism Board, and it showed the network of paths and trails in the general vicinity, as well as marking nearby camping amenities. He peered close at the board, looking for the red star which showed his current position, near to a fork in the path.

Great...two routes to take.

From what he could see, there were no signs of recent human passage along the current stretch of trail, so it was impossible to say which way they had gone. So he consulted the map instead, and saw that the left fork lead up into the nearby Arklay Mountains, where only the most daring (or suicidal, take your pick) mountaineers dared to venture. And considering the group from the prison had little supplies save for guns and ammo, heading up there would have been suicide for them. And so his attention turned towards the other path.

According to the map board, it lead towards Arklay Springs- a local camper's residence consisting of over a dozen wooden log cabins and other services, designed to support a few dozen campers at the most, normally used by boy scouts on residential trips or large parties looking for a camping holiday in the woods. And it wasn't far removed from the main road into Raccoon City, so it seemed the most logical place for a number of people to hole up in and wait for the cavalry to come by and pick them up. It looked like Jessop had his new destination in mind.

It's the best I've got.

With everything decided, he set out on his way once again, only pausing briefly to down another couple of painkillers, as he could detect the lingering pain in his head and ribs beginning to return. Once the pills were starting to take effect, he continued on his way, It didn't take him long to find the proof that he had indeed chosen the correct path to take.

In the centre of the trail were the spent brass casings from what looked to be a 9mm handgun, along with a single red shotgun casing. The brass was cold now, so some time had passed since they weapons were used, though he could still see where they had passed through, breaking through the soft undergrowth and embedding into thick tree trunks, splinters littering the forest floor. He could also see a splash of dried blood across the grass, but no body, human or otherwise.

Oh dammit, they were shooting at something. Was it one of those crazies? Or something else?

It was a thought that didn't exactly steady his nerves, but he couldn't let them get to him, lest he end up screwing up and making a mistake which got him killed. But still, he just couldn't quite quell that anxiety probing the back of his brain, telling him that something very bad was lurking just out of sight, waiting to strike.

He raised the revolver to his eye level and checked the cylinders were still fully loaded, before snapping it shut again, and then taking off on a steady jog down the trail towards his intended destination.

---

Corporal Greene knew that it was about due time he got some straight answers, as he walked away from the perimeter of the refugee centre, pulling out the cell phone he had received the previous day, snapping it open and dialling the lone number saved on it: the one for the man he knew all about now; Daniel Lindeman, director of Umbrella's New York operations.

He had taken a few moments to do some research the second he had got back from the briefing with the Lieutenant. He knew this Lindeman had worked with Umbrella for some 50 years, risen his way up through the ranks to his current position, known as being somewhat ruthless in business matters, yet with a keen intellect. It was clear from the nature of the conference that something fishy was up within the Board of Directors, and within the city itself. And it was high time he got some answers rather than being kept in the dark.

The phone was dialling for an abnormally long, and for a moment he was sure that there wouldn't be a response, until he finally heard the click of the other end answering, and he received a rather barbed response.

"Do you mind? It's not exactly easy to excuse myself from these talks."

"I think that's the least of your concerns right now, Mr Lindeman," shot back Greene. "I'm sure you're not blind- you know fine well I was in that meeting back there and I know I probably recognised your voice as well."

"Yes, I'll give you that," replied the Director, "I never implied you were an idiot Corporal. This was bound to happen sooner or later; I just never expected to see you at that conference."

"Save it, Mr Lindeman," snapped Greene, glancing over his shoulder before turning his attention back towards the cell phone. "You and the other Directors are up to something, and I want to know why the hell you dragged me into this entire mess!" There was a slight sigh from the other end, and then a low chuckle.

"Well its clear there's no pulling the fast one on you, eh Corporal?" chuckled Lindeman. "No, you're perfectly correct. There is something else going on, something that's worth far more than the lives of everyone within Raccoon City."

"Excuse me?" asked Greene, not believing what he was hearing. "There's over a hundred thousand people in that city, and you and your friends are perfectly fine with just letting them die?"

"I know it sounds horrible, but they are already beyond salvation, Mr Greene," replied Lindeman calmly. "This isn't about a toxic waste spillage- this is something far beyond what the tiny mind of the average person can ever comprehend. And if it ever comes to light, then my life, and the lives of everyone else in Umbrella will be in jeopardy."

Greene held his tongue for the time being. Beforehand he had never believed in conspiracy theories- how man never landed on the moon, Area 51 and aliens, and so forth. But after what had transpired so far, it looked as though things weren't as clear cut now.

"Is that so?" asked Greene sarcastically. "And what makes you think I'm willing to go along with it?"

"Oh well no-one's forcing you to do so," replied Lindeman in a casual manner, "you do have a choice. You can do what I ask of you, and as long as things go smoothly then there won't be much else to worry about...and I'll ensure that all of your debts are cleared." Tobias bit his lip and glanced back once more, anxious of what would come next.

"-or you can just refuse, walk away and act as though things are normal. But of course, we both know fine well those debts won't clear themselves, and I doubt your loan sharks have much patience left before they break your joints and then leave your body floating down the river somewhere, hmmmm?"

The sarcasm was dripping off his words by the end of his little monologue, and Greene cursed mentally to himself. The old man was right in a way- if he didn't find a way to get the money together soon, he was as good as dead. It was getting harder and harder for him to conceal the bruises and other injuries that he received from his beatings, even when he tried to fight back, and even Lieutenant Fletcher had stepped in at one point to help out. The next time would probably be his last, and he valued his life too much for such a fate.

I just know I'll regret this.

"Fine," he sighed heavily, glancing behind him once more. "What is it you want me to do again?"

"Oh, it's as I explained beforehand, Mr Greene," answered Lindeman, "you just need to observe activities at the centre and keep me informed on any developments. As I told you prior, if the truth about this whole mess ever came to light, then we will all have to pay the price."

"And I suppose you'll keep me in the dark about the truth?"

"Oh come now, there's no need for that kind of behaviour," replied Lindeman, before adding, "as I told you beforehand, if the truth ever came out then a lot of people would lose their jobs...or worse. And that means I can't even risk telling you, my trusted contact."

"Trusted my ass," spat Greene in response, though the director chose to ignore that remark, as he seemed to be conversing with someone in the background.

"I must go now," he then stated out of nowhere, "but I shall contact you later. Keep your phone close."

"Hold on a damned second"-

Click.

"Fuck!" he cursed, turning away and putting the phone away into his pocket, and then turning back and walking over towards the tents in the near distance. Though he was clearly still angry at this Lindeman, and angry at himself, there wasn't exactly much he could do right now. The best thing he could do now was to get back to work, before Lieutenant Fletcher and anyone else got suspicious about what he was up to, standing away from everyone else.

He was just walking up to the edge of the refugee tents when he could hear Fletcher on the comms link to somebody else, and he didn't sound too happy right then.

"-but sir, with all due respect," he began, before he fell silent as the person on the other end spoke up once again. "Well I'm sorry they feel that way, but I'm not the kind of person to just become a corporate lackey."

More angry static from the other end, and then Fletcher sighed heavily as he nodded. "Yes sir. As you wish sir. Goodbye." He put the horn down as Greene stepped inside.

"That was Colonel Adams, wasn't it sir?" he asked.

"Got it in one," replied Fletcher as he turned back towards his subordinate. "He's not too happy with my performance at the video conference with Umbrella's directors," he explained, though it was largely obvious judging from what he had been talking about when the Corporal had walked up. "They feel as though I'm not on the same page as everyone else in this situation, and it's not helping at all. Their words, of course. And Adams seems to be very eager to just roll over and let them walk all over us- but I know he's just obsessed about how the PR for our regiment would be affected by this whole mess."

"You can't blame the Colonel for acting like that," reasoned Greene, "I mean, look at the mess that happened with Captain Petrucci."

"Don't get me started on Petrucci," Fletcher muttered, shaking his head. "I spoke to one of his sergeants not too long ago- it seems that Petrucci sent another fire team into the city on a recon mission, but no-one's neither heard hide nor hair from them since then."

"Jesus," whispered Greene. "What was he thinking?"

"Who knows?" replied Fletcher sharply, "but right now we still have to worry about the refugees under our jurisdiction. Greene, go over the paperwork and try to get together a list of everybody here at the moment- see if we can link up with everyone else and try and get some families back together."

"Yes sir," nodded Greene, before turning on his heel and striding back out into the afternoon air, waving a few troopers over to help him out. There was still a lot of work to do, but the voice of Lindeman lingered at the back of his mind, almost as if taunting him, making him doubt his intentions.

---

"Well then, that's quite a story."

They had all relocated to a packaging warehouse filled with crates of tinned fruit and other perishables stacked to the very ceiling, also featuring an upper walkway leading towards an enclosed security office, and downstairs there was a large shutter which led out onto the street, as well as more offices and a restroom along the far wall.

The scar-faced man had lead the university students here after he had found them at the convenience store, saving Ryan and Miles from those fleet-footed, red-skinned zombies with claws. Amy and Ryan were eating from open tins of canned peaches, whereas Miles was helping Michelle to eat from a similar can- though she remained silent, she was walking by herself now, and was accepting the food.

"Yes, you could say that," replied Miles as he looked over at the man, leaning against a concrete pillar, "Mr...?"

"Hotspur," the man replied, matter-of-factly. "Corporal Juan Hotspur, from the U.B.C.S."

Ryan looked the man up and down briefly. He didn't just look like a soldier- he looked a literal one-man army, armed with not only his assault rifle and the savage-looking knife hanging from a sheath on the lower half of his flak vest, but he also had a pistol holstered at his right hip, and numerous ammunition magazines and packs hanging from his vest and various straps crossing his body. He looked more like a hero from a cheesy gung-ho action movie than a normal person.

"The U.B.C.S?" asked Miles with a raised eyebrow. "What the heck's that?"

"The Umbrella Biohazard Countermeasure Service," explained Hotspur, a trace of Spanish accent in his dialect. "We were deployed into the city to save the civilians."

"Wait, Umbrella has its own military unit?" asked Ryan.

"Not exactly," snapped Hotspur. "We're just hired mercenaries. We've got no official connection with the company- we just do what's asked of us, long as the price is right," he continued, moving away from the pillar and standing beside a stack of crates instead. He then ripped his blade free from its sheath and started carving something into the surface of the crate right beside him.

"Right then," replied Miles, not convinced. "So then where are the rest of your buddies?"

"Who knows?" replied the Latino man, sounding a little bothered now. "Most of them were killed within minutes of landing. The rest of us ran for it...far as I know, I'm the only one left."

"Damn it," cursed Miles, dropping the spoon he had been using onto the floor, and rubbing his brow harshly. It looked as though the stress was getting to him now, having been told the cavalry had been wiped out almost to the man. "But there has to be something that can be done!"

"Well what do you suggest, hombre?" asked Hotspur, twirling his knife around and aiming the tip towards Miles. "I'm just one man, after all. It was a stroke of luck I found you all when I did in the first place."

Ryan remained quiet as he observed this Hotspur man. From the start he knew there was something very dangerous about this man; it wasn't just his scarred face, it was the way he carried himself- supremely confident and also with a dangerous air, almost as though he wouldn't hesitate to turn around and cut them all up into pieces. To say the least, he was content not to say too much right now and just see what happened.

"Something wrong?" asked Hotspur suddenly, turning to face Amy who had been staring at him quietly for a while now as they spoke between one another. She flinched visibly, and he offered a slight smirk. "Oh, I see. Wondering where I got this?" he then asked, pointing to the scar that bisected his face.

She didn't reply as he maintained his glare.

"I got this during a stint in a Panama jail," he continued. "You ever spent a few days in one of those? Ha, I tell you, that ain't no picnic. No guards, no nothing. They just throw you all inside and throw away the key. Every man for himself."

"You were in prison?" asked Ryan in disbelief. "What for, exactly?" he then inquired, but Hotspur sidestepped the question as he spoke up again.

"One thing for sure, there's way too many of those things out there right now," he stated as he sheathed his knife and walked back over towards the pillar he'd been leaning against. "It wouldn't be very smart trying to go through them. Taking the long way around would be best...and finally, I don't know about you guys, but I feel as though I'm going to pass out on the spot. We should at least rest for a while."

"He's right," agreed Amy, speaking up after swallowing a mouthful of peaches. "Come on Ryan, we've been walking for far too long today- we have to stop and get some sleep. For everyone's sake."

"The redhead's got a good point," stated Hotspur as he glanced right at her, a smile playing about his lips. Ryan paused for a moment to consider the implications behind that statement, before he shook his head and focused on the main concern at hand.

"OK, sure," he sighed, setting down his now empty tin. "He's right. And he is the guy with the guns and the big knife in the end- we're safer staying in here."

"Thanks for agreeing, son," smiled Hotspur, a slightly condescending edge to the word 'son'. "All of you should stay as close as you can- don't wander off too far."

"Sure thing, Mr Hotspur," replied Miles sarcastically as he rose to his feet. "Just remember that we've survived for quite a while before you and your friends dropped into town."

"Well either way, don't get cocky, kid," shot back Hotspur, eyeing up Miles suspiciously. "I've seen too many people get killed because they let their guard down, or got overconfident. I'd hate to see you follow a similar fate," he then added, even as he glanced over towards Michelle, waiting until she looked up and he caught her eye, before he offered a grin that was to similar to the one he had given Amy moments beforehand. This time it was Miles' turn to consider the implications.

"Yeah, sure," said Ryan, picking up on his friend's uneasiness, and breaking Hotspur's gaze.

"Yeah, of course," agreed Hotspur, nodding. "Well, you guys want to get yourself comfortable, I'll keep lookout." With that, he retrieved his assault rifle and pulled back the bolt, before moving over to sit on a crate that was opposite the steel door they had originally entered through. He cast a glance back towards the students and offered an eyebrow raise and a smile, before turning away again.

As soon as his attention was diverted, Miles got up and entered one of the offices, looking to scrounge up some blankets to act as makeshift bedding. Michelle offered a brief smile as he left, but otherwise remained rooted to the spot. After a few more moments, Amy turned to Ryan and lowered her voice to a whisper.

"Ryan, I don't trust that man."

"Guess I'm not the only one who thought that," he replied, stealing a quick glance backwards. "He's just got this dangerous air about him. Like we shouldn't risk turning our backs on him."

"But still, he's right- we can't just go running off by ourselves and leave him on his own," reasoned Amy, "and besides, he seems to have experience of these kinds of situations."

"Does that mean stuff like this has happened before?" asked Ryan as he glanced back again. "That Raccoon City wasn't the first place to have this happen? Why else would Umbrella have its own military unit dedicated to that means? There's something else going on here..."

"Well we don't really have the time to work out conspiracies," hissed Amy, as she noted Hotspur was glancing in their general direction, before he offered another of his smirks and turned away to focus on the door again. Even though it looked pretty solid with a few wooden crates stacked against it, it would never hurt to be too careful. "Ryan...I feel as though I might just pass out on the spot. Please, can we just put our heads down for a few hours at least?" Ryan looked into her eyes for a few seconds before he finally caved and offered a smile and a nod.

"Sure thing," he said. "Sorry, I was just..."

"Just what?"

"Uh, it's nothing," he said q quickly, shaking his head. "Come on, let's see if we can help Miles find something to help us bed down for the night," he then added as he rose to his feet.

"Don't go too far kids," called the Umbrella soldier from the entrance, prompting Ryan and Amy to glance over towards where the scarred man was still perched upon his crate, looking over towards them.

"We won't, don't worry," replied Ryan without mirth as he lead Amy away towards where Miles had disappeared into the office. As they went, Hotspur raised an eyebrow and offered another smile to himself, before turning away to face the door once again.

Just a bunch of skinny kids- but that makes it all the more easier for me...

---

Kelly was screaming even as Steven bought the axe down, taking off one of the spindly legs of the horror which had crashed through the attic window. It shrieked and stumbled back, its piercing cry mingling with Kelly's scream and threatening to rupture his eardrums.

"RUN!"

She didn't need to be told twice, spinning around and bursting through the door leading out onto the fire escape, her footfalls clanging down towards ground level. The horror threw itself towards Steven on its hind legs, and he swung the axe wide, the blade cutting across the front of its chest and spilling green, foul-smelling blood that sprayed across everything in range, including the front of his shirt and jacket. It stumbled back, its remaining arms flailing wildly.

He took the opportunity to run himself, throwing the door open and slamming it shut, throwing his weight against it whilst fumbling to throw the bolt into place. But he was too slow.

WHAM!

Something heavy slammed against the door from the other side, and he was thrown backwards, the axe flying out of his grasp and falling down to ground level. Kelly was nowhere to be seen.

"Damn," he grunted, before stumbling down the stairs as fast as he could manage, all the while with that damned shrieking going through his skull. His mind couldn't even begin to process what it was meant to be- some huge, vomit-skinned, clawed, bulky creature that called to mind an insect, albeit one featuring great meat cleavers on its legs and mandibles dripping with bloody gunk and other unmentionable fluids. It was almost as though it had crawled out of someone's worst nightmare.

Or out of Hell itself.

There was a groaning of steel, and then the door above him was forced outwards, literally out of its frame, and then the thing came scuttling out, its claws slicing through the thin steel grating of the fire escape, causing it to catch itself in the construction, continuing to shriek madly at him. By then Steven had reached the bottom of the fire escape, and had retrieved the fire axe, pulling it out from amongst some black trash bags. The creature flailed its arms, the claws slicing through the support rails with ease, and then it fell to the ground below, landing on its back with a the snap of several bones breaking, rendering it practically paralysed.

The thing remained on its back, flailing its arms, and Steven stumbled back to avoid its claws as one of them sliced open a tear in his jacket sleeve. Only pausing for a moment to examine the extent of the damage, he stepped forward and bought the axe down in a two-handed overhead chop, the blade slicing through the creature's neck and taking off its head into the bargain. Only then did it finally become still, as green blood spurted from the severed stump.

Steven stared down at the twisted creature, even as he heard Kelly approaching from behind, finally coming out of hiding since the threat had been dealt with. He stepped away from the dead body as its legs curled in on the main body, and soon enough Kelly finally broke the silence with the most pertinent question at the time.

"What the hell was that?"

Steven wished he had an answer for her. But much like those zombies, this thing seemed to defy all logic. It couldn't be explained in a million years. He opened his mouth to say something when another piercing cry cut him off.

He swung around to try and face the source of the noise, when something large and bulky crashed into him from above him, and he was knocked flat on his back in tandem with Kelly's frantic screaming.

Another of the creatures towered over him, and this close he could pick out every oozing sore on its skin, every smear of blood from recent victims, and each stiff hair that erupted from its pores. He could even see his own terrified expression within its bulbous eyes as it began to draw near, eager to sink its mandibles into his soft flesh. Somewhere behind Kelly, a second creature, identical to the first, clambered down the brick wall, homing in on them both. His axe was still out of reach, there was nothing they could do to hold them off-

The first creature came down at him, shrieking in anticipation of the kill-

BOOM!

A terrific sound ripped through the alleyway, and the creature's head erupted like a balloon filled with gore, spraying everything within a few feet in stinking green blood. Kelly screamed once again, further antagonizing the creature hanging off of the wall above her, and it began to claw down towards her at a faster rate. Then that noise came again, and the creature dislodged from the wall, falling onto a closed dumpster with a fair amount of noise. It flailed on its back for a few more moments, and then another cracking sound, somewhat quieter than the first two, and then the monster fell still, its head lolling to the side limply, part of it blown away.

"Steven!" called Kelly as she scampered to his side and helped him to his feet gingerly. He still looked somewhat dazed, those loud noises that had killed the creatures still coursing through his brain.

"I-I'm OK," he said eventually, looking over at his companion. "W-what happened?"

A second later, they were granted their answer as a figure in the light blue shirt and dark pants of the Raccoon City Police Department walked towards them, casually reloading a double-barrelled, sawn-off shotgun like the kind Steven had seen in old Western movies. The figure was covered in dirt, sweat and dried blood, his dark hair matted with blood and other substances, his eyes two bare spaces shining through his filthy face. He reloaded the shotgun finally and snapped the barrels shut before he cast a quick glance over them, examining them up and down to check that they were still in one piece. After a while longer, he finally spoke up, his voice parched from thirst.

"Both of you, come with me, now. Before anymore of those freaks show up."

Steven didn't need telling twice.

---

Sergeant William Leland didn't expect this. Not in his 5 years of experience in the Delta Force, or his 5 years in the relatively peaceful posting in the 12th Regiment of the Raccoon Garrison.

He stood by himself at the back door of an abandoned apartment block, standing over the body of what used to be support gunner Adrian Becket, Leland's combat knife embedded through the front of his throat, right up to the hilt. Despite the half-dozen hurried stab wounds that marked the front of his torso, it was only that last wound to the neck that had finally felled him.

"Fuck..." gasped the sergeant as he fell back against the wall behind him, feeling fatigue creeping into his bones.

The whole op had been FUBAR from the start. Captain Petrucci- making increasingly rash decisions in light of the debacle that involved several civilians being gunned down at the checkpoint- has approved another insertion into the city by Leland's fire team consisting of the sergeant, Becket, rifleman Daniel Mitchum and scout Arnold Tucker. It was intended to show the watching media that they had the situation under control and were making headway in trying to understand what had happened in Raccoon City. This was all despite Leland's insistence that going back in was testament to suicide, after what he had seen previously.

Things went to hell almost as soon as the humvee they were travelling in rounded a corner and nearly ploughed through an entire crowd of those crazed lunatics. Tucker tried to drive them out of there, but only succeeded in crushing several of the people beneath his wheels and flipping the humvee over. The fire team managed to pull themselves free from the wreckage, but Tucker was trapped in the driver's compartment, and they were forced to leave him behind. Leland could still hear the scout pleading to be rescued as they fled, letting the lunatics swarm around the overturned vehicle.

"Guys! Please don't leave me! For God's sake HELP ME!"

And it wouldn't end there, when they tried cutting through an apartment block, only for Mitchum to be attacked and savaged by a dog missing half the skin off its flesh and displaying an almost feral display of violence. The animal only stayed down when it had been pumped full of lead from their weapons, to the extent that it was almost entirely ripped into bloody shreds. And then there were the other crazies that swarmed out of the surrounding apartments and rooms, closing in around them, threatening to overwhelm them.

The fighting was fast, fraught and brutal, spraying the walls, ceiling and themselves in blood and gore and other vital fluids. Leland lost his M4 somewhere within the scuffle, and he was forced into drawing his Beretta sidearm instead. By the time himself and Becket had reached the back door and relative safety, Mitchum was gone- having lost track of him inside the building. There was literally no time to go back and try to pull him to safety, and so they had to fall back even further into Raccoon.

Two men down within half an hour. Shit, we weren't trained for this.

The next two hours had been a blur as they moved from building to building and street to street, trying to stay alive and engaging the crazies in wild skirmishes. Becket's arm became scratched by one of the lunatic's wild assaults, nails digging into the first couple layers of skin, just deep enough to draw blood. It was only a scratch, the gunner had insisted, but barely an hour later he sounded as though he were coughing up his guts and was dragging his feet, struck down by chronic fatigue.

The next step had resulted in what lay at Leland's feet: Becket going insane in an instant and trying to tear the sergeant's throat out with his bare teeth, forcing Leland to stab him to death. The 'scratch' on Becket's forearm was now badly inflamed and surrounded by dead skin, almost as though it had been infected with something. But the rate at which it had been infected was far faster than he had ever seen in the past.

Something was very wrong in Raccoon City. Even now he could hear the pained moaning of his inhuman pursuers all around, choking the streets and alleyways, pouring out of the buildings to close in around the fresh prey. And Leland was stuck in the middle of it all, with no backup and no easy evac on the way. Considering the cramped nature of the streets, landing a chopper in Raccoon would be almost impossible, and a road convoy would run into the same problem they did upon arrival. No, he was by himself now.

It wouldn't be the first time he had been in enemy territory by himself. His first mission with Delta Force started with the rest of his squad being wiped out when their helicopter was shot down over enemy territory, and he was forced to run, hide, sneak and fight just to stay alive, desperately staying one step ahead of the enemy battalion tracing his steps, until he finally reached the safety of a NATO compound. That mission alone taught him the vital survival skills and bloody-mindedness that had served him well ever since. And he'd need them once again, in this nightmare.

Gingerly, he removed his combat knife from Becket's throat, making sure that none of the blood sprayed onto him- it wasn't entirely clear what had infected Becket in the first place, so it was best to play it safe right now, try not to follow a similar fate. He wiped the blade clean on the breast of Becket's jacket, before he glanced around, looking for something a little more 'substantial', his eyes soon settling on a crowbar that was already stained with blood on one end, having been used earlier.

That'll do.

He picked the tool up carefully, before taking a good grip to make sure he'd be able to use it with maximum efficiency. He'd barely finished when he heard the weak moan and turned his head to the side to see a male figure dressed in the light grey fatigues of a maintenance worker shamble around the corner. Even with one eye missing and its right arm dangling off by a few strips of flesh, it homed in towards him, intent on the kill. He wondered briefly exactly how smart these things were, but considering that they only attacked by closing in en mass, he figured they weren't smart enough to try and dodge attacks.

Leland didn't intend to give it a chance to do anything otherwise, waiting for it to come within range, before he swung the crowbar into its left cheek, eliciting a crack of bone from the impact and a spray of blood, before it fell to the tarmac. As it lay on the ground, trying to rise up again, he thrust the sharp end of the crowbar down, right through the back of its neck and severing the spinal cord. The creature spasmed in place, and then he ripped the crowbar free in a spurt of blood, and it finally lay still.

"Ugh," he whispered as he observed the ghastly sight. But there was little time to dwell on what had just happened, and he turned his attention towards the direction the creature had come from. Peering around the corner to ensure the coast was clear, he headed off towards somewhere other than here, making things up as he went along.

Let the games begin...

---

Juan Hotspur had to wait until they had all fallen asleep before making his move. Sure, they may have just been university students, but he was still outnumbered four to one and didn't want to take any chances.

He left his weapons on the crate he had been perched on for the last hour or so, aside from his ever-trusty knife, which he kept at his side. Spending time in that Panama jail had taught him much about keeping some kind of weapon on him at all times, as who knew who would try to cut your throat while you were sleeping? That massive scar bisecting his face could have been a lot worse were he not a millisecond faster as the blade came down at his face.

He peered round the edge of the downstairs office doorway, watching the blonde as she slept. Michelle, they said her name was? Whatever, the only other thing he knew about her was that she had barely said a word since one of their friends had transformed into a viral carrier right in front of her eyes. Lucky for him, she wouldn't be making much noise while he was doing his 'thing'. And then that would just leave the redhead for him to get to know better.

He slipped his fingers through the gap of the partially open door, slowly pushing it open, a smile crossing his features.

"What are you doing?"

Hotspur turned in an instant to face the young man who had been by the blonde's side since they had originally met. He was stood a few yards away, a rather severe look on his face. Hotspur offered a smile as he turned away from the door.

"Hey kid, I was just checking on her, that's all."

"I'm not a kid, first of all," the 'kid' replied, his facial expression not changing one bit, "and secondly, I find that pretty hard to believe. Sure, you saved mine and Ryan's lives back on the streets, but I've seen how you've been looking at Michelle and Amy since we got here."

"Oh?" asked Hotspur, straightening his posture so he was taller than the kid by at least a couple of inches. "Looking at them like what?"

"Well last year one of our lecturers was arrested for sexual harassment," explained the kid plainly, "and we all knew who it was long before it happened- he'd always stare at the girls like they were pieces of meat, up and down. Just like how you're doing right now." There was a deathly silence inside the warehouse as Hotspur's smile faded.

"Oh really?" the scarred mercenary asked a she took a slight step towards the kid. "Miles, was it? You seem like a smart kid. Well if you're as smart as you look, then you'll back off before something happens. This is none of your business." Miles looked as though he'd been struck by lightning, even as the larger man turned away from, reaching to open the door into the office again.

"Wait a damn second!" said Miles firmly, recovering as he stepped forward and planted his hand on Hotspur's shoulder, pulling him away. "You dare touch a hair on her head"-

The Hispanic man whirled around with almost unnatural speed, something held in his right hand that was subsequently plunged into Miles' stomach. The student almost doubled over from the impact, a gasp escaping his mouth as the air was knocked out of him. Hotspur grunted in a low manner as he ripped something free, and Miles tumbled to the ground, feeling a sense of weightlessness as blood poured from his stomach, his killer standing over him, clutching a blood-soaked blade in his hand.

The killer was smiling.

"Guess you weren't that smart after all."

And with that, he turned and vanished into the office, as Miles' vision failed him.

Upstairs, Amy had stirred when she heard the sounds of talking, and then had began to sit up in her makeshift 'bed' when she heard what sounded like a gasp: almost like someone having the air knocked out of their lungs suddenly. She remained frozen in that position for a while longer.

"Ryan?" she whispered, only to see that he was currently still fast asleep across from her, eyes closed with his baseball bat laying across his chest, ready for anything. Though they had a heavily-armed Umbrella mercenary to protect them down here, he was still holding onto the weapon for dear life, just in case. After all, neither of them trusted this Hotspur guy one bit.

She considered moving over to rouse Ryan from his slumber, but then she heard a muffled noise beneath her- the office where Michelle was sleeping. She turned her head towards the open doorway briefly, wondering whether or not she should do anything, but when the sounds came again, quickly followed by the sudden crack that could only come from a backhanded slap, she was on her feet instantly.

She was outside in the dimly lit warehouse and quickly descending the steps to the ground floor before she could realise what she was doing- she was in no state to be getting into a fight with whoever had intruded into the warehouse, after all. But Michelle was in no state to resist any attempt to harm her, and Amy couldn't just leave her on her own, adrenaline coursing through her veins.

She had reached the bottom of the stairs and was just about to call out Michelle's name when she saw something else and she cupped her hands to her mouth, smothering a scream of horror.

Miles lay on his back, his entire lower torso and legs drenched in blood, almost as though someone had just painted him with blood-red paint. There was a huge, ragged tear in his stomach as well, from something incredibly sharp. His head was tilted to the side, his eyes closed.

She was about to move forward to examine him when there was another sound from the left, and Hotspur walked out of the office Michelle had been resting in. His knife was clutched in his left hand, covered in recent blood, and he wore only his shirt- his pants and boots were gone, leaving him wearing only a pair of black boxers. As it happened, there was blood splattered across his lower legs and stomach as well. He looked straight at Amy, and a sick smile crossed his face.

"Well hello there," he said, taking a step forwards. She backpedalled two steps and nudged against the wall, freezing like a rabbit in the headlights.

"What?" he asked casually, waving his knife about. "Oh, about your friend. Sorry about that, but she wasn't up to much in the end. Almost like a vegetable. She didn't scream or anything, but didn't make any other sound either. So disappointing."

Amy was still horrified into silence as he took another step towards her, still acting as though this were just an everyday occurrence to him- but he had murdered Miles, and likely had done the same to Michelle- and worse.

"You know, I never did tell you about myself, did I?" he asked, that demented smile still plastered across his face. "You see, where I come from, I had something of a bad reputation. Seems all these girls were going missing and turning up in ditches and what not- their throats cut out." Amy's back was against the wall well and truly now, and she was desperate to find some means to get away from this lunatic. The way he was speaking and acting, he wouldn't have thought twice about cutting her into pieces.

"And the police said I was the one who did it! Can you imagine that? Me, painted as this monster? I never intended to become a monster, I couldn't help it."

"What exactly couldn't you help?" asked Amy, managing to sound disgusted despite the peril she was in.

"It was like this, this...itch, right in the back of my brain, and if I couldn't find some way to make it go away then...then...I'd just lose myself," explained Hotspur, clearly still full of glee, but his eyes showing a faraway look. "Those poor girls...they were just so pretty when I saw them, sure was a waste to just let them walk away without doing anything to them."

"Do...anything to them?" asked Amy.

"Oh yeah, I had a lot of fun, but I don't think they did, on account of being dead by the end of it all."

Amy cupped her mouth once again, purely as a reflex to the retching noises she made. This man was insane. 'Totally friggin' batshit crazy', as Zac would have put it, where he here at that moment.

"And also," added Hotspur as he took another step towards her, his eyes gleaming, "did I ever tell you that I've never had a redhead? Well, looks like that's going to change right now." His brows furrowed right then, his eyes narrowing into a lethal stare with malicious intent- fully directed at Amy.

She turned then and tried to race back up the stairs towards relative safety, and where Ryan was sleeping, but the scarred lunatic was a lot faster than she anticipated, and he caught her by the hair roughly from behind, eliciting a scream from her lungs as he threw her forwards roughly onto the stairs, smacking her forehead across one of the steps. Stars swam in her vision for a moment, until she was dragged onto her back. Hotspur towered over her, almost smacking his lips in anticipation of what was to come.

He lowered the knife down towards her neck.

"Don't worry, I'll make it quick- once we get to know each other a little better."

She raised her leg and thrust forwards, booting him right in the groin. He let out an 'oof' and lowered his arms, and then she tucked both legs back in and thrust them both forwards into his chest, throwing him off backwards, where he smacked the back of his head off of a wooden crate directly opposite the stairs, and then he sank to the floor, coughing and groaning, grabbing at the back of his head with one hand. Amy took the chance to turn and scramble back to her feet, ascending the steps half upright, half on her hands and knees.

"Shit," cursed Hotspur as he stumbled to his feet, faster than initially expected, before going after the redhead once more. "Fucking bitch! Get back here!" Amy ignored him as she sprinted past the room Ryan was still sleeping in, shouting his name.

"Ryan!" she yelled frantically as she sprinted past the open doorway, having to spin around and face her pursuer as he was almost right behind her, slashing towards her face with his knife, forcing her to backpedal a little more and crying out again in fright. Hotspur faced her once more, knife held in a battle stance.

"More trouble than you're worth, red!" he sneered, inching closer, relishing the fact he had her backed into a corner. "Guess that doing a redhead wasn't that much to concern myself with in the first place, eh? All those pricks were lying through their teeth. Just as well I'll make it extra quick- just for you!"

Amy continued to back away, wide-eyed, searching for some kind of escape- but with her back to another wall, it wasn't looking good at all right then. Hotspur took another step and raised the knife to come down on her, when he heard a metallic thud from behind him and his spun around to face the source of the noise when it was followed by a brief whistling sound.

Crack!

Something hard smacked Hotspur right in the chin, sending the scarred man tumbling backwards and over the walkway's railing, the knife flying out of his hands along with a stream of blood spewing from his busted-open chin. He fell head over heels once, and then landed atop of one of the storage crates spine-first, rolling over onto his front and falling flat onto the ground, not making another sound as he fell silent.

Amy cried out at the bone-crunching sound of him hitting the crate hard and flopping to the floor, before a hand grabbed onto her wrist and pulled her around to look into a familiar face.

"Woah, hey, easy! It's me, it's me!" said Ryan frantically as he looked her in the eyes, brushing a stray strand of her hair away to examine the wound on her forehead where she had grazed herself. "You OK?"

She nodded in response, even though the answer to 'being attacked by a lunatic armed with a massive knife and nearly being killed and possibly worse' was normally a very obvious response. He then glanced over the railing towards her attacker's body. He remained deathly still, not moving from his initial spot when he had fallen.

"Is he...?" she asked.

"Stay here," Ryan ordered, but before she could try and dissuade him he was already making his way along the walkway and down the stairs, his baseball bat readied just in case Hotspur wasn't as dead as he seemed from above. He inched closer to the still form, before carefully reaching out with his bat, prodding the man's ribs with the tip of the weapon.

Hotspur didn't stir, even as Ryan prodded him a few more times, but each time the body remained deathly still. Easing up somewhat, he moved around towards the man's neck, stooping down to press a couple of fingers against his neck, checking for a pulse. He leaned in closer, fingers inches away from Hotspur's throat.

Suddenly the man lurched to his feet in an instant, a roar gathering in the back of his throat as he swung his arm wide, the blade he had produced from some unknown place barely grazing Ryan's body, cutting open the fabric of his shirt. Amy let out another scream from above as Hotspur stumbled towards Ryan, his left arm hanging limply at his side, most likely broken or dislocated, while his right knee showed a very obvious bone fracture where it had erupted through the flesh. The blood leaking from his chin completed the grim look, the man's eyes impossibly wide now.

"DIE!" he screamed as he lurched forwards, trying to hack at the student with his knife, but Ryan had expected the assault and swung his bat, knocking the blade out of Hotspur's hand, but the maddened mercenary continued on his path, barging into Ryan and forcing him up against the support post behind them, his hand clamping around the young man's throat and squeezing hard.

"Damn gringo! I'll break your goddamn pencil neck!" he growled, teeth and mouth soaked with fresh blood. Ryan gagged as he tried to prise the fingers away, but the mercenary kept a firm grip. He smacked his balled fists against the man's forearm with little result, and in the end his only option was to raise his foot up and stamp down hard on Hotspur's foot, breaking one of his toes and eliciting a sharp cry of pain from the larger man as he released his hold.

The next few moments passed as though in slow motion, as Ryan scrambled to grab for Hotspur's knife and turning to face the crazed man as he lunged for him once again, wielding a second switchblade that seemed to have materialised from thin air, screaming a curse. Ryan swung around and held the larger blade with both hands, driving it into Hotspur's stomach as his momentum carried him forward onto the weapon.

The mercenary let out a gasp of pain and surprise, that quickly translated to a choked gurgle as blood dribbled freely out of his mouth and pooled on the floor, the switchblade falling from his grasp as Ryan stumbled backwards, almost floored by what he had just done. The bastard may have killed Miles and Michelle, and was planning on doing the same to the other two, but he was still a human being. Not one of those zombies.

Oh God!

Hotspur looked up at Ryan in the eye directly, one more defiant sneer crossing his features.

"Damn...never though a no-good...kid would...do me...in..."

And with that, he finally slumped forwards and crashed face-first onto the dusty floor, blood pooling beneath his form. Ryan almost lost his footing, collapsing against a nearby stack of crates and turning white as a sheet, even as he heard frantic footsteps making their way down to him.

"Ryan! Ryan, on my god!" spluttered Amy as she practically threw her arms around him, nearly knocking them both onto the ground. Ryan was just about able to remain on his feet, and when she saw his state she immediately drew away in concern. "Ryan?"

"I killed him," whispered Ryan as he looked past her towards the sprawled corpse of Hotspur.

"He was going to do the same to you, Ryan."

"But he was still a person!" responded Ryan as he continued staring at the body. "He wasn't one of those brainless creatures walking about out there. He was a flesh and blood person!" He sighed and lowered his head, even as Amy backed away, unsure of how to approach this situation. There was another long silence, before he finally rose to his feet and walked over towards the still form of Miles, not too far away. He looked down at his friend's body, and sighed once more.

"Damn it," he spat eventually, "getting knifed in the guts just because he was trying to protect her. Guess that's why chivalry's dead," he then joked in a morbid fashion, before he moved over to the still-open doorway and peered inside, his face grim. He let out a disgusted sigh and stepped away, lowering his head as he did so.

"Don't look in there," he said quietly, closing the door to give Michelle some kind of dignity in death. "Damn it, that bastard really did a number on her." Amy lowered her own head, but even from where he was stood Ryan could tell that she was on the verge of breaking down then and there. Understandable really when he considered the circumstances.

"Come on," he finally said. "We have to get out of here, keep going."

"Wait, we're just going to leave them here?" she asked suddenly, waving a hand over Miles' body. Ryan sighed before answering.

"Well there isn't exactly anyone left to give them a decent burial, is there?" he asked in a prickly manner. She turned her head away, feeling like a fool for suggesting something like that, and he sighed to recompose himself. "Look, we shouldn't waste anymore time," he then added. "Come on, the sooner we get out of here the better."

---

Back at the eastern edges of the city, Corporal Adam Davies stood at the barricade, looking over towards the vista of Raccoon City in the near distance, smoky pillars reaching up towards the sky like the fingers of some dark God. Though he felt as though that any kind of God would have forsaken the city considering what he had seen along with Sergeant Leland not too long ago.

Speaking of which...Leland's team had been redeployed into the city on another recon sortie, by nothing had been heard since then- they had been radio dead for nearly 4 hours now, and their anxiety was building as a result. Some had said they were all as good as dead, whereas Davis was among those trying to stay positive- even if that camp was becoming more and more deserted now.

He was flanked currently by two private first classes, Malcolm Caine and Rick Anderson, both of them talking between one another as they discussed Leland's whereabouts and Captain Petrucci's increasingly erratic behaviour.

"-I'm just saying man, Petrucci's always had his head screwed on the right way, but ever since yesterday he's been all over the place."

"Keep your damn voice down," hissed Anderson as he looked over his shoulder. "You get caught saying stuff like that and he'll have your guts for garters. He's got the press and the Colonel breathing down his neck, so he's looking for any excuse to crack down on the rest of us."

"Oh yeah, since he had the press removed from the site," responded Caine in a dry manner, "he has to bite someone's head off. And who gets it inevitably? Us of course, the rank and file people. The sergeants and the Lieutenant get off lightly."

"Come on, that's enough," said Davis as he turned on them suddenly. "We've got other things to do other than gossip like women." The two PFC's groaned and nodded in confirmation before wandering away to undertake their perimeter patrol, while a short distance away, a few of the civilian refugees watched, perched on the fold-out medical cots underneath a large pitched tent.

There were accusing eyes watching him. Frankly he didn't blame them after what had happened, but if Petrucci hadn't given the order then a lot more people might have died. But they were still fearful and resentful, and the fact that they had to drag some of the people who had fled back to the checkpoint didn't help matters much, as did having the press removed from the site. Petrucci's head was all over the place, and it was affecting them all. Half of the men didn't have clear instruction on what was needed of them, and the other half were having enough difficulty trying to win the trust of the refugees. Half of the people wouldn't let the soldiers anywhere near them., and the other half were highly vocal in being looked after by 'a bunch of no-good murderers'. They let the doctors tend to them, but that was about it.

Petrucci had to promise that they would all be moved to a different refugee centre as a means to calm them all and put them at ease, but since all of the other centres were pretty much overflowing with other refugees, why any officer would agree to that was beyond him. He sighed in annoyance and turned away, approaching the medical tent to check on the wounded, to try and do some good at least.

It was going to be a very long operation.

A/N: And we're done again. And we're still here, so thankfully the world didn't end on May 21st. We're safe- for now.

Yes, another long wait between updates. I do apologise for that, but things have been really busy and hectic lately, both at work and at home. Oh, and I also got Red Dead Redemption recently, so that might have something to do with it. But it's an awesome game, really enjoying it so far. And John Marston's probably one of the best video game characters to come around in a long time (up there with Nathan Drake of Uncharted, of course).

As for this chapter here, first off I know that the part about Hotspur and his...urges may seem a little beyond a T rating, which is why a lot of it is implied or happens 'off the page', so to speak. But if I offended anyone then I do apologise.

Incidentally, the name 'Hotspur' comes from the hero of the upcoming survival horror/action adventure game from Shinji Mikami and Suda 51, 'Shadows of the Damed'- which happens to look absolutely batshit crazy when you see it. And for another video game reference, the line 'the killer was smiling' comes from the Max Payne series; again, the third entry of which is currently in development. And I really wanted to crowbar in (see what I did there?) a Half Life reference when Leland found the crowbar, but I did some research and found that Half Life wasn't released until November 1998- after the Raccoon City outbreak according to the RE timeline, so no-go I'm afraid. Ah well, maybe next time.

Anyway, you know the drill. R&R as usual please.