Chapter 28: Keepers of the Forest
October 2, 1998
11:25 PM
Arklay Forest
Finding the B.O.N.E.S. team had been a great deal easier than Zeke was anticipating. Ryan was the unit's best tracker but it had been Shank who truly led the pursuit. The Umbrella squad was skilled at hiding the traces of their passage and the rainfall had washed out most of their tracks besides but the big man had still been able to follow the meager trail of boot prints and snapped twigs without a moment of hesitation to their quarry. Zeke had been quite impressed to say the least but all Shank would offer for explanation was that he had worked as a wilderness guide once. The Ranger had no trouble believing that: with his unkempt hair and Viking-style beard he thought the Psycho would have been quite comfortable prowling the wild – or standing his ground on a frozen battlefield in medieval Iceland swinging a sword twice his size. Whatever the case, Zeke was grateful that fate seemed to be working in his favor for once.
Raising the night vision binoculars to his eyes once more, the forest turned to vibrant shades of neon green and white. Seven figures stood in a small clearing maybe forty meters ahead of where Zeke and the others lay hidden in the tall grass – well, six of them stood while the seventh lay at their feet, shunned and shivering in the pouring rain.
It took every drop of willpower in Zeke's being not to run to Rachel then and there. He wished he could do so, he wished he could run to her and bundle her in his arms and carry her away from all the despair suffocating Raccoon City. He wished it with every fiber in his body but he made himself stay; there were others he had to look out for now and being a hero might get more people than just himself killed. Zeke forced himself to stay concealed in the snake grass and thick brush while studying the other six figures.
They were the Umbrella cleaners all right, judging by the rifles hanging from their shoulders and the gas masks hiding their faces. They all stood around one of their number who traced one finger along a laminated map, apparently reviewing their route to the research station.
There was something odd about the man though and Zeke gaped when he realized what it was. There were bullet holes in his vest – five of them – but the trooper just went on with his lecture as if nothing were wrong. Zeke shook his head. It didn't matter he had seen stranger things than that during his time in Raccoon.
It wouldn't matter if they were all standing around sipping tea and wearing purple hats. Zeke reminded himself, adjusting the binoculars and zooming in closer on the prone figure of Rachel. Her whole body trembled. Her shoulders shook violently and she hid her face in her hands. She was crying. She was hurt. She was dying. They killed Shots and Sam. They took Rachel. They tried to kill you. Nothing about them matters except that they die before the sun comes up. Zeke nodded. He would keep that promise.
There was movement at his side and Zeke lowered the binoculars. Wesley lay stretched out in the wet grass beside him, wiping at the water streaming down his face with one hand. To the Brit's right was Shank, looking every bit the soldier with his M4 at the ready and one eye staring down the sight. Behind them lay Kathy, Tech and Skip, breathing hard and clutching their weapons close. At this range handguns would be useless but if Zeke's string of luck held and everything played out right then the whole encounter would be over in minutes and there would be no need for that trio to get involved.
"Is everyone in position?" Zeke asked and Wes nodded.
"All set," he replied, scrubbing at his nose, "Ryan and Eddie have got the left flank covered while Coop and Scott are watching the right side. We've got things secured here on the north so the only way they can run is south into the bloody trees and God knows what else. Ryan is waiting for your signal, once you give it he'll fire the first shot and we'll take these buggers apart." A grin split Wesley's dirty face. "We've got these bastards boxed in tighter than my father's waistline, Zeke. We'll get Rachel back in no time, you'll see."
Encouraging words but Zeke was not so certain he could agree. His plan was for a quick surprise attack, box the B.O.N.E.S. troopers in and then pick them off before they knew where all the bullets were coming from. That was the simple version of the plan anyway – take the cleaners out with potshots from behind cover then move in and nab Rachel – but, as with al things in Ezekiel Wilcott's life, there were complications.
The foremost of these was the fact that one of his bunch was an insider, possibly working for the enemy they were about to engage. That meant no one under his command could be trusted to fire if left to his lonesome – hence the pairs. Coop and Scott would watch each other while Eddie kept an eye on Pierce. If this mole was interested in maintaining his cover then he'd have to shoot when Zeke gave the word or else be called down. Wesley, the lieutenant would watch himself. He hated himself for doubting the loyalties of a man who had been his friend – his brother – for decades but Zeke had learned that trust was an expensive, not to mention dangerous, luxury to afford in Raccoon City. Gregory Burke had taught him that.
The second problem was timing. Every shot had to be fast and precise. If anyone hesitated, if anyone missed their bulls-eye then things would go from bad to extremely shitty in the blink of an eye. A moment's hesitation could cost Rachel Parker her life.
Zeke stamped the negative thoughts from his mind and ground them beneath his boot. Whatever happened would happen. It was time to save an innocent woman and send a pack of murderers to their graves. I won't hesitate. I have a promise to keep.
"Let's do this." Zeke said, reaching up with one hand to lower the night vision goggles strapped around his forehead.
Wesley nodded without a word before pulling his own set of goggles down as well, pressing the stock of his weapon to his shoulder. Shank lacked a pair of NVGs but claimed he could see just as well in the night as he could in the light of day – better even if one could believe it. It was a small matter though, Zeke already knew that the majority of the shooting would be done by the Rangers but Shank wanted revenge and the lieutenant felt he had a right to it. They all had a right to vengeance this night.
Pressing his lips together, Zeke locked his elbows and slow his breathing. He centered the sight of his M4 on the head of the man holding the map. Maybe he had taken a handful of rounds center-mass and survived but Zeke highly doubted the man would be looking so fit with a .223 jammed in his forehead. The lieutenant began to whistle, humming the musical cry of a blue jay – a bird that had no business singing at this hour, in this part of the country.
The B.O.N.E.S. soldiers raised their weapons at the sound of the bird call, heads swiveling about but Zeke cut the tune short before any could pinpoint its source, settling back in on his target. Slow your breathing, keep your hands steady, don't over think. He told him self, going through the motions he had learned back in boot camp. He could not afford to throw off his shot now, not with Rachel's neck on the chopping block. Keep your eye on the target. Listen to your heart. There's nothing but your heartbeat, no noise except its own. Zeke listened and all that existed was the rhythmic thump-thump of blood in his ears.
Briefly, he wondered if it was dawning on any of the Umbrella thugs that they were dead, trapped in an ambush with over half a dozen men lying in the grass pointing weapons at them. They'd all be dead soon, Zeke knew, it would only take Pierce a moment to hear the bird call and another to line up his shot.
Pierce would be the one to start the slaughter, all the chips rested on his bullet finding its mark but it would. Pierce never missed and Eddie was there to watch him besides. He never missed, he was ice and stone and he – the crack of the Remington tore a hole through the night, punctuated by a bolt of lightning and a blast of thunder.
One of the B.O.N.E.S. troopers screamed and hit the ground, clutching at his shoulder as another pulled him to safety behind the cover of a tree. The remaining soldiers dove behind rocks and the thick trunks of oaks, firing indiscriminately into the surrounding forest, tearing up a screen of dirt and wood chunks. Zeke lay gaping, unable to believe his eyes: Ryan Pierce missed. He missed.
"Hold your fire!" The lieutenant shouted before anyone could lay a finger on the trigger of their weapon. Wesley cursed and Shank did the same but this was more important than fulfilling a vendetta. If they opened up now odds were it was far more likely they would hit Rachel – left lying helplessly in the open – than a foe. "Hold your fucking fire!" Zeke added under his breath, "Goddamn it, Ryan Pierce!"
"Bloody hell," Wesley muttered, his voice dripping with frustration, "I don't suppose we've got a Plan B tucked up our trousers now do we?"
"Maybe." Zeke replied after a moment's thought. He did have a back up strategy but it was risky. Once again it all depended on how gullible the B.O.N.E.S. commander was feeling and Zeke doubted that was very much with one of his men injured. Then again, a similar ploy had worked once before and his father had forever been fond of the saying that if it wasn't broken don't fix it.
Fortune favors the bold. Another old saying but Zeke had discovered that he was hardly fortune's favorite person these last few nights. Face it you're out of options and running out of time. You either do something now or wait for the nuke to hit and make the choice for you. So, what's it going to be lieutenant?
"I've got an idea." Zeke whispered.
"Is it a good idea?" Wesley whispered back.
"It's an idea at least." Zeke shrugged. "Here's what we're going to do…"
Within moments Wesley was running down the line, moving as swiftly and silently as a ghost while passing the message from ear to ear. As he moved along, Zeke called out – not to his own men but the B.O.N.E.S. troopers – swearing that when this was all over he would route out the rat in his unit and grind them to dust beneath his heel.
Pierce, the name burned in Zeke's mind hotter than the sun and he discovered that he was grinding his teeth together so hard they threatened to shatter. Rachel was still out there weeping, bleeding, dying all because the supposed sharpshooter had missed. If Ryan Pierce playing at being a spy then Zeke would hang the man by his bootstraps and make him howl. Rachel was still out there because he had missed. Maybe Zeke would make the man howl even if he was not guilty.
Page Break ----------
"This son of a bitch just does not know when to stay dead!" Rico muttered to himself, crouching behind the trunk of a moss covered oak. Mick lay sprawled on the ground with a hole the size of an acorn through his right shoulder. He had one hand pressed over the wound but was still losing blood at an alarming rate. "Count yourself lucky, Mick, if you hadn't bent down to re-tie your boots that shot would have opened your head up like a Kinder Surprise egg."
"Christ." Was all the Irishman could bring himself to moan in response and Rich sighed. He liked Mick but the man had never really had much of a sense of humor.
Ironic though, Rico thought, slapping a fresh clip into his AK, the first guy to get hurt all night and it's my medic. Funny but I'm not laughing. Those bastards may have survived being blown to bits twice but now they're just pushing their luck.
It had to be the Rangers out there – no one else would have been able to find their tracks let alone sneak up and launch a surprise attack. Granted whatever advantage the Americans had thanks to surprise was gone now. Rico's men were well spread out and behind cover. No one would be able to approach without leaving very well ventilated.
"This is Lieutenant Wilcott of the United States Army Rangers!" An authoritative male voice called from deep in the woods, seeming to echo in all directions as thunder crashed and lightning blazed in the sky. "I'd like to speak with whoever is in charge of your unit!"
Rico could hardly believe his ears, thinking that the raging rainstorm must have caused him to misunderstand. First the man was taking potshots at him and now he wanted to talk? Major Da Silva smelled something fishy – and rotten fish at that.
"This is Major Rico Da Silva." He hollered back, thinking it best to keep the Ranger talking so that he might draw a bead on his position – no easy task in this weather. So much for being quiet. "It's nice to meet you, lieutenant, I'd hate for you to die without knowing who killed you!"
Beside him, Mick groaned something unintelligible and Rico felt his hate for the man – this Lieutenant Wilcott – rise. He really did like Mick Murphy – as much as one hired gun could like another anyway – they had been together since Rico had been given a command. The Irishman was the closest thing he had to a friend and this hillbilly had tried to kill him – tried to kill them all. It would have been better for Wilcott and his rabble to have died when Saint Jude's went up, now Rico would have to grant the man a rather painful end for his transgression.
"I'd like to propose a trade, major." Wilcott shouted from the brush, a peal of thunder washing away his words a moment later. They came from the north somewhere but from how far back?
A trade? Was the man actually serious? The lieutenant had to be mad to propose that. Maybe he had misjudged this Wilcott as a brilliant survivalist when he was just a lunatic who had been unnaturally lucky so far.
"What makes you think I want to cut a deal with you?" Rico taunted. "You hurt one of my boy scouts and no one takes a shot at one of my boy scouts and gets to walk away with all their pieces in place!" Keep him talking.
"Let me assure you, Major Da Silva, that my men have you surrounded." Wilcott said above the howling wind and pounding rain. Yes, he was definitely to the north, back maybe thirty meters. "We have you and your men boxed in from all sides, major. It's a stalemate. Either we talk about a trade off or wait for whatever is hoping around these treetops to make an appearance. It's your call."
"Fuck him." Mick said, awkwardly trying to wrap a bandage with one hand around his wounded shoulder, his med kit lying in the grass beside him. "The bloody swine is bluffing. Give him nothing, major!"
A powerful thing to assume coming from a man who was bleeding as profusely as Mick but the man was Irish and as such had a tendency to think with his temper rather than his head. The medic was a good enough soldier but most definitely not leadership material. Keeping his emotions cool, his thoughts focused, Rico began to mull through his options, formulating and dismissing possibilities at near-light speed.
We could rush them head on, they'd never expect that but what if Wilcott is telling the truth after all and we're surrounded? They'd cut us down before we got to our feet. So I keep him talking while Boris and Foller flank him – no – I'm still not sure of his exact position. Then we don't fight at all, we slip away into the bush – and have to contend with Umbrella's playthings instead.
That left the B.O.N.E.S. commander with only one more choice and he did not care for it at all. Whatever the company had done to Smith after the incident it had made the man bulletproof – and Rico did not care to find out what else. He could always have the…thing – Smith was no longer a man – carve a path through the hillbilly's Rangers if not for the fact that Smith only took orders from Smith and he seemed quite content to just kneel behind that boulder with Petrovsky. Cripes, the idiot didn't even have a weapon drawn!
"What can I say, lieutenant," Rico shouted back with a rueful laugh, "you've got my balls in a juicer. All right, let's talk deal. What do you have exactly that I want?"
"A doctor," he replied, a fork of lightning knifing through the crowds, "his name is Greg Burke and he works for the same employer as you do. He said he was sent here to manage the Raccoon Project."
Rico nodded to himself. He recalled his brief…meeting…with the doctor back at Saint Jude's only hours ago. He had been an elegant if rumpled looking sort of man with a hooked nose and rigid posture, his hair slowly turning gray. At the time Burke had also been wearing the most terrified expression Rico had ever seen on a human being before. Well, one of the most terrified expressions he had ever seen before anyway. Still, Lieutenant Wilcott seemed to be doing a lot of Burke's speaking for him.
"Not that I don't trust someone who shoots at me from the dark or anything," Rico said, "but would you mind letting me speak with Doctor Burke for a tick?"
"Not until you give me what I want, major." Wilcott answered. "One of your men took one of my people captive back at the hospital. Her name is Rachel Parker, she's the pilot for my unit."
Of course, the girl Smith had taken. So she had name now did she? Rico had nearly forgotten about the young lady after his scuffle with the supervisor, a foolish thing to do. He should have assumed they would come after her if they survived the destruction of Saint Jude's – another thing he should have not thought impossible. This group seemed to have the devil's luck.
Glancing to his right, Rico turned his eyes to where the girl lay in the middle of the clearing. She was soaked from her hair to her heels in the pouring rain, huddled in the fetal position as she wept brokenly into her palms. Rico thought she had adopted the position more out of shame than a desire to be warm. Rodney Foller's attentions could be quite…rough…or so the tales went.
"Fair enough, lieutenant." Rico said, ignoring Mick's startled grunt and the sudden look Smith threw his way. It was about time they learned he was the one in charge after all. "I'll send out one of my boy scouts with the girl once you send over one of yours with Burke."
"I don't think so, major." The Ranger replied quickly. "I'm the one holding all the cards here, major, so you're just going to have to do as I say. I'll deliver Burke after Rachel is safely with me. The ball is in your court, Major Da Silva."
The smell of rotten fish grew stronger in Rico's nostrils – something stank. Lieutenant Wilcott was asking for far too much and giving back jack all in return. Was he bluffing, was Doctor Burke even alive anymore? Too many questions; too many risks. Rico had already taken one risk that night and the result had nearly placed all their necks in a noose.
"Fool me once, shame on you." Rico whispered to himself. "Fool me twice, shame on me. I don't make the same mistakes twice, lieutenant."
Slowly, carefully, Rico unclipped a grenade from his vest and signaled for the others to do the same. They did so without protest, seeming to read his mind, even Smith. With one hand Rico gestured in the direction they were all to throw then held out three fingers, telling them it would be done on the count of the three. The other B.O.N.E.S. troopers nodded. Third time's the charm.
"Sorry, lieutenant," Rico began, bringing one finger in and leaving two extended, "but your price is a little too expensive for my blood." He rolled in a second finger. Pins were pulled from the grenades and arms cocked back ready to throw. The plan was still a gamble but Wilcott would have no clue what was coming and no time to react. Rico brought in his last finger.
"Skree! Skree!"
Rico froze, the other men turning to statues at his side, their arms locked in mid-throw. Images of the Prague facility surfaced in his mind, images of the two men who had fallen to the talons of creatures who moved like the wind and struck with deadly precision from the shadows. They were much like shadows themselves and Rico doubted that even if he lived to be one-hundred he would never forget the unmistakable screech of the Hunter.
"Forest Keepers." Smith said from across the way, barely audible above the calamity of the storm and the rising cries of the approaching monstrosities. "Umbrella cross-bred them with chameleon DNA. You could trip over one in this forest and not even know what it was until it was too late."
"How do you know what they are?" Rico demanded angrily. "I can't even see them – hell – I can barely hear them above the thunder!"
"They have a distinct…smell, major." Smith replied as cool and straightforward as a computer. Rico suppressed a shudder. He could smell them?
"Use your grenades, we're getting the hell out of here!" Rico ordered, tossing his own frag before the others followed suit, the explosives landing in the brush to the north.
There was a streak of lightning but the peal of thunder was swallowed up by the resulting explosion. Columns of fire and dirt sprang up into the air, illuminating the woods in an orange glow for a brief moment before the debris came falling back to the ground in a shower of mud and top soil. There was a loud groan and reverberating crash as one of the oak trees gave way and collapsed.
A small section of the Arklay woods had been blown to kingdom come but Rico wouldn't bet on Lieutenant Wilcott and his bunch having gone up with it. Odds were that he had heard those shrill, inhuman screams too and had thought it best to relocate. Besides it seemed to be the lieutenant's job to harass him at every turn this night and Rico wasn't about to trust to luck that the man was dead. He hoped Wilcott was alive actually he wanted the satisfaction of killing the Ranger for his enjoyment alone.
"Foller, get the girl." Rico said in a rush. "We'll need her if those dip shits are still a – "
A spray of bullets tore into the trunk Rico crouched behind, sending a rain of splinters across his face. Acting on instinct, the major threw himself to the ground and fired in the direction of the shot. Smiling as he was rewarded with a startled grunt of pain, Rico rolled back to his feet, gesturing the others forward.
"Foller, get the girl! Everyone else get your asses in gear!" He shouted as a chorus of gunfire rose in the bushes far behind and feral cries of bloodlust filled the night.
With Smith leading the way and Rico holding up the rear, the B.O.N.E.S. squad surged forward through the brambles and brush. Lightning lit a fire in the sky overhead, the rainfall nearly blinded Rico as he ran. Thunder echoed, men shouted, guns blared and the Forest Keepers shrieked with the thrill of the hunt – the ecstasy of the kill.
Foller's surprised cry from behind Rico made the major halt in his steps, kicking up mud as he skidded to a stop. Whirling, Rico turned to see Rodney flat on his back clutching at his right leg where a ragged hole stood out on his thigh, dripping blood. Not necessarily a lethal wound but certainly a crippling one.
"Major!" Foller cried out, desperately reaching out to Rico with one hand, trying to pull himself forward on his side.
Rico took a step forward – and stopped. Overhead, the canopy quaked as something darted from treetop to treetop, sending down a snow of dead, discolored leaves. Branches creaked and swayed beneath the weight of heavy burdens. Bolts of lightning flared casting light on lean reptilian shapes with flaming crimson eyes and daggers for fingers. They were all over the place, darting from tree to tree with a deadly, liquid grace.
"Please, major!" Foller begged, pulling himself through the mud. "They're coming!"
Rico took one look at Rodney – helpless, unable to walk under his own power and sounding more horrified than seemed possible – then glanced up to the trees teeming with Hunters. Images flashed through his mind of Prague facility, of the two men who lost their heads to shadows with claws – dead before they could even raise a hand in self-defense.
"Sorry, Rod." Rico said before turning tail and chasing after Smith and the rest. Really, the decision was a no brainer and he felt no guilt in it – why should there be any guilt about making the smartest decision available and saving your own neck? Rico Da Silva knew he was no hero anyway and had no desire to be. Heroes had an uncanny knack for getting them selves killed.
"Major!" Foller cried out, his voice tight with fear and rage but Rico paid him no mind. The man was an asset just like any of them – a tool for the company to use. You didn't expend any energy or emotion when a tool broke you simply picked up a new one and continued the job. No one would mourn the loss of Rodney Foller – or Rico Da Silva for that matter – so it was of little consequence really. In B.O.N.E.S. you looked out for Number One.
Blocking out Foller's last, terrified screams, Rico dashed into the brush, batting away the vines and branches that tugged at him. All he could think about was putting as much distance between himself and the sounds of battle at his back. The Keepers of the Forest were coming and Rico entertained no ideas of occupying their domain when they came looking for intruders – and a hot meal.
Author's Note: Here's the new update, Readers, look for another one in a week or two. Please review as always, tell me who/what you like/dislike. I know not a whole lot went on in this chapter but it'd be lame to just fast forward to the AMRS with no real conflict along the way so I hope you enjoy all the same. Don't forget to review and I hope that you will continue to stay tuned.
