RESIDENT EVIL 2
-Willpower-
DISCLAIMER:
I do not, as I'm sure you know, own Resident Evil/Biohazard or any of its characters. I can only sigh and wish I did. If you are a Capcom representative and would like that I take this down, contact me at dfinnamore@hotmail.com and please refrain from suing me. This was written just for my own enjoyment, and perhaps the enjoyment of others. I am
not making any money for this.
I do, however, own those characters not featured in the video games or comic books (which I've never had the
chance to read). As such, Micheal Reed,
Amelia Frank, Alison Hardy, Kyle Lockheed, and
Sean Vasser were created by myself and are of-
ficially copyright (c) 2001 Daniel
Finnamore. Thank you for
reading.
ONE
Micheal Reed had never been a religious man. He still figured he never would be one. Never one for churches or being told what to do by a guy he'd never even met, he'd always said. Micheal didn't like the idea of missing football on Sundays anyway. But as he sat behind a garbage dumpster in the alleyway beyond an apartment building, cowering like he hadn't in his life among filth and even a rat, Micheal Reed was praying to any god he hoped was listening.
The things edged closer by the minute, and their strange shuffling gait and inhuman moans only served to further unsettle man. He could smell them now, just like he'd smelled the last pack that had shuffled by the alley. He'd learned last time that if he hid absolutely silent and still, they didn't find him. And as much as the proud man hated the idea of hiding like a scared little child, living to see the Raiders beat the 49ers next Sunday held a certain charm for Mr. Reed.
As the monsters passed him by, Micheal exhaled and picked up the flashlight he'd placed on the ground to avoid dropping it. A heavy metal job, its swath of brilliant white light had cut through the thick fog that had rolled in earlier in the night. The fires that had broken out all around Raccoon City had quickly cleared up the fog, and about an hour earlier, the power had come back on, revealing the terrible truth of the matter in a harsh, unyielding orange glow. Even the neon signs that sat on many storefronts along the downtown strip had shed their multicolored glow on the city's horror. Now the only reason Micheal kept the flashlight was for its usefulness as a bludgeon. Plus, it would be helpful for busting into a gun shop, if he could find one.
Micheal slowly stood up from behind the dumpster and calmed his speeding heart. He quietly edged his way up to the front of the apartment building, understandably paranoid at every sound, and looked around the street. Other than a burning car and the heady scent of burnt rubber and something considerably more exotic-charred flesh-the street was clear. Mr. Reed sighed in relief and ran across the street, up onto a pile of junk that would have, at one time, been a newsstand. With the buildings all along that side of the street crumbled by several crashed cars and even a fallen streetlight, Micheal had little recourse but to climb over a building. The newsstand was his easiest route to access the fire-escape ladder.
From there, the dark-haired man clambered onto the fire-escape ladder and then onto the metal scaffolding that led to the roof of the building.
Up on the roof, Reed found himself in more trouble than he needed. A small group of the things, stumbling wildly, were feeding on a still-struggling man whose screams were muffled and choked off by the overpowering smell of death. The monsters' rotted forms oozed various fluids, some recognizable-blood, pus, liquefied flesh-others not. Micheal just about wet his pants with something other than rain when one of the creatures looked at him, groaned a pained sigh, and began shuffling at him.
It was a stomach-churning sight, not nearly human enough to incite even the barest level of sympathy from Reed. All the rotting beast elicited was a terrible, strangled cry of terror from Reed. It was all that could be expected from a person who could see and smell the thing. It's sinews, trailing bits of muscles and skin still attached by fat, hung limply in rolling bundles all about its pant-less legs. Juices squirted in irregular bursts as it walked towards Micheal, sent spraying in fetid dribbles by the weight of its dragging footfalls rather than a pulse. And as it neared Micheal, the one-time private detective and divorcee, the man decided that running would be a good idea just about then, through a fear-clouded sense of judgement.
Micheal let out a small murmur of action to himself, and sluggishly tore himself from the spectacle. The monster was quicker than it looked, which wasn't apparent to the man while he was in his stupor of fear. He made his legs work like they had to if her were to escape, and ran with a burst of uncharacteristic speed to the far side of the roof. Which, to his dismay, meant going past the horde of zombies devouring the poor man. Micheal didn't take any time to think about it, though, and ran with his heart in his throat past them. In his terror, perhaps a blessing rather than just fear, Micheal never noticed one of the monstrosities reach out and try to snag him, tearing instead the flashlight from Micheal's very hands.
Only when he hit the far fire escape did he realize he was without his flashlight.
"Ah, shit. Figures." His voice was without the fear he had earlier been feeling, just seconds previous. That damn flashlight had cost him fifty bucks-on sale! Angered as he was, Micheal wasn't stupid, and got climbing down the ladder as fast as he could, before they decided to get some fresh meat. One, he could escape from. Probably. Six or seven might be a problem, even for an experienced detective, skilled in losing tails or avoiding capture or being seen.
He quickly worked his way down and off of the ladder, letting himself drop from ten feet. Reed wasn't about to go walking around without anything to defend himself with, but without even a serviceable piece of rebar nearby, he had little choice. He picked up a sizeable chunk of concrete from the ruins of a storefront and took a quick look up at the top of the apartment he was on. The monster that had been following him before was now looking down at him with a mournful moan in its throat.
Micheal was on his way in a second, carefully checking everything. He looked around so often that his head was on a swivel. Not that he really needed to look around to find things worthy of making him quicken his step to a fearful lope. To his right, almost twenty yards away, Reed could see a female thing, its clothing tattered and its flesh shredded. What might have been the woman's breasts at one time were now disgusting, hanging pockets of slime rotting faster than the month-old pizza Micheal had forgotten to throw out last week. His belly did flips inside of him, and even though she wasn't close enough yet to be a threat, Micheal knew better than to try to hold his ground. Usually, where there was one, more were sure to be found.
So Reed turned away from the woman, ran down the street, and paused at the location sign.
"Winston and Fifth." Micheal's words were tinted with exhaustion and fear. He was close now, only a block or two away. If he was careful, he could make it there. Just two blocks. And yet it seemed like miles.
Dr. Sean Vasser hadn't quite been himself for the last seven hours. No one had, really. Who expects three drive-by gun wound corpses and a knifing victim to suddenly and dangerously spring back to life, and kill two nurses and an autopsy examiner in the basement? Who expects the seven walking cadavers-zombies, as named by a couple of interns who'd been up too long on the night shift-to come after hundreds of others in the hospital, spilling their speedily decomposed flesh all about the once-sterile hospital floors and instruments, beds and counters? Not Sean Vasser, that was for sure.
Sean and a few others-nurses, first year interns, and a mild influenza patient among them-had been keeping quiet and safe in a doctor's cafeteria on one of the upper hospital floors for nearly three hours.
"Look on the bright side, Doc. At least we won't run out of food!" said RN Amelia Frank, an aging forty-something mother of three whose sense of humor had been seasoned by more than one hardship. Her comment had been made at the earlier outset, when they had first been forced to hide and had thought their call to the police would quickly be answered. Since then, over the fearful hours, conversation had fallen flat and silent, held to quiet jokes to keep spirits as high as could be expected.
The zombies were trapped on their floor, being understandably unable to use stairways or elevators in their post-mortem stupor. Occasionally they would shuffle by in a pack of anywhere between three to seven. But, so far, the doctor and his fellow survivors had been able to keep quiet enough to avoid them giving any 'thought' to their locked cafeteria door.
Vasser wondered now, in light of the some two hundred undead patients, nurses, doctors, and visitors, what his Harvard degrees meant. His mind had been racing for the last seven hours as to the nature of these zombies. He'd been thinking about the possibility of himself being infected, but from what he'd seen, only those in the hospital bitten by the undead monsters were of the tainted blood. And it took little more than a passing gnaw, as the young interns were joking just a few hours ago.
Sean looked around carefully, and stood up. The patients-three of them, only one even remotely serious-were sound asleep, IV units still attached and working. The interns were playing with an apple as though it were a ball along a dining table, but on average three cores beside each of them showed how long that'd last. And the nurses were tending to food and the patients, doing motherly things like they knew best to stay calm. They were making some sort of dough on the wide metal table in the cafeteria, which was joined by two swinging aluminum doors to the industrial kitchen.
"I'll be back in a little while." His announcement came as no shock; he'd been talking about it for a good while before conversation flew away.
"Doctor, be careful. No reason to lose you, just like poor Dr. Gregory and Dr. Hall. Such a waste..." Nurse Frank trailed off in sadness. Grace Hall and Amelia Frank had been friends both at work and away from it for going on twenty years. Dr. Vasser intended to discover firsthand, definitively, what had become of Grace.
"Yeah, Sean. At least take a weapon or something, pal. Even if you don't want to be forced to use it, having a knife or something'll make us all breathe easier. You don't know what you could run into." An intern, Robert Ramirez, spoke up for the first time. Unlike the more vocal younger interns, Ramirez was a quiet and studious type who didn't speak unless it was necessary. Because no one else had said it, he had.
"I'll take one of the big knives from the kitchen, and go down to the fourth floor where my office is by the elevator at the end of the hall. I'll call the police again, and collect a few things to put in my car. From there, I'll go to my car. I have a revolver under my seat. Ill be back in twenty minutes. If I'm not, don't come after me. I won't desert you, and when I get back, we all go together." Vasser meant every word, and everyone there knew it.
Sean took a step toward the polished metal doors, and looked back at the nurses and interns with a reassuring smile. "I'll be back."
The kitchen was a huge room where everything was brushed steel and sanitary. Glove dispensers, dedicated hand washing sinks and disinfectant chemicals abounded at every turn. But in the center was the island that Vasser sought. It held massive wooden knife blocks, containing the sharpest knives manufactured. The blades of these knives ranged from small paring knives to heavy, long-bladed cleavers.
Vasser knew very little about cooking, even less about knives. But Sean could figure out when a knife would be effective or not, and one could easily discern from his passing glances that the paring knives and bread-cutters would just not do. As his hand passed over the racks, the labels under each knife handle would catch his eye. Four-inch steak knife, seven-inch serrated steak knife, softened butter knife, small paring knife... they all seemed too small or too lightweight when he lifted them. Then Sean Vasser, M.D. came upon the rack he wanted. Butcher's knives, tens of them.
When Sean left the kitchen, he'd settled on a very heavy, very sharp, butcher knife with a finely serrated edge. It was a good knife, Sean could tell just by the perfectly molded handle and the equally well made blade. He may have been inept in the kitchen, as his ex-wife had told him so many times, but he wasn't stupid.
Sean's eyes darted warily about the hallway.
Zombies to the right of me, undead nurses to the left, here I am, stuck in the middle with you... Sean's mind wandered to an old song and he laughed through a smile of gritted teeth.
In actuality, the hallway was clear of the undead creatures for all intents and purposes. A lone zombie stood at the end of the hallway, near the elevator, but Sean was certain it hadn't seen him. He was also sure he could evade it well enough when he got closer, and get into the elevator.
Amelia Frank, however, had another word in the matter. Poking her head out of the kitchen door, which Vasser had locked behind him a second time, Amelia told the doctor rather loudly, "Now don't you just go and come crawling back here. You bring survivors, Doctor Vasser."
Doctor Vasser cringed at the volume of her voice, which, unexpected by Sean, went unchecked. Only when the zombie turned around and began to stumble towards the doctor did the nurse realize her mistake.
"Oh, Jesus..." the nurse stood, half in and half out, stunned into paralysis.
"Amelia, get inside and shut the door!" Sean growled, angry both at having his plan ruined, and at having to fight off a zombie. Mrs. Frank did as told, and he could hear the lock click on the other side.
The zombie was a sickening sight, and its overall disgusting nature struck even Sean Vasser, who had seen so many dastardly injuries and spilling wounds in his career as an emergency surgeon. The undead monster's legs were clothed in what looked like doctor's scrubs, although it was hard to discern this from the bloodstained fabric. The top of the zombie was somewhat easier to recognize. A green and red shirt, similar to that worn by a certain female nurse that day, sat upon the top of the zombie. Blood and other murky slimes oozed in a trail behind the undead woman, and as she walked, a chunk of her scalp-hair and all-fell to the floor behind her.
"Oh, God. Patricia!" Sean's pained cry was hear even through the heavy locked door of the dining room.
Patricia Laughton, a petite brunette in life, had been under the eye of Sean for almost a month now. He'd wanted to ask the girl out, but her nursing career and his procrastination had rendered that a wish. Now, her zombified nature rendered that moot.
As she stumbled toward him, Sean heard a sound behind him. Pounding. Pounding and screaming. Pounding and screaming and moaning. He didn't even have to guess, but the no-brainer would have to wait. Patricia was coming at him.
She grunted an equivalent, as far as the doctor could tell, to "food" and lunged at him. Doctor Vasser stabbed blindly outwards with the butcher knife, and connected with her throat. She gurgled, but kept coming at him. Sean drew back the knife, looked carefully this time, and shot the knife into her eye. The zombified nurse clawed at him, but Vasser moved away and around her, and away from the zombie pounding on the kitchen door.
Now he could get a good look at the zombie trying to bust down the door, as Patricia struggled to find him. The zombie at the door paused to look at him with white, soulless eyes, before turning its attention back to the door. With superhuman strength the decayed creature pounded away at the door, and to Vasser, the deep dents in the door made it look like it was about ready to give inward.
Patricia stumbled backward, and then fixed upon Vasser once more. Her blood, dead and dark, fell from her face in a slow, lazy dribble. Her throat, which was decayed and shredded beforehand, bled no more when Sean Vasser stabbed it. She fell forward at him in a semi-controlled fall, and was met right through her chest by the knife. Her eyes, white and without pupils, dimmed slightly, and she fell off the knife.
The other zombie, presumably a cook, had broken the door off its hinges, and shattered the lock. He was inside already and feeding on the screaming form of Amelia Frank.
"My God." Sean's words echoed the thoughts of the rest of the survivors. They stood stunned in the doorway of the kitchen and the adjoining dining room.
"Don't stand there, run!" Sean called. They didn't move as a collective, but rather one patient moved forward. As he entered the light from the hallway, Sean could see what he'd hoped wasn't true. They'd been victims of "a passing gnaw" during their flight to the cafeteria, and now they'd attacked the others.
As Sean ran from the room, he muttered in indignation, "Leave for ten five minutes, they start eating each other. Jesus, it's a cafeteria, not a downed plane. Couldn't they find a granola bar?"
-Willpower-
DISCLAIMER:
I do not, as I'm sure you know, own Resident Evil/Biohazard or any of its characters. I can only sigh and wish I did. If you are a Capcom representative and would like that I take this down, contact me at dfinnamore@hotmail.com and please refrain from suing me. This was written just for my own enjoyment, and perhaps the enjoyment of others. I am
not making any money for this.
I do, however, own those characters not featured in the video games or comic books (which I've never had the
chance to read). As such, Micheal Reed,
Amelia Frank, Alison Hardy, Kyle Lockheed, and
Sean Vasser were created by myself and are of-
ficially copyright (c) 2001 Daniel
Finnamore. Thank you for
reading.
ONE
Micheal Reed had never been a religious man. He still figured he never would be one. Never one for churches or being told what to do by a guy he'd never even met, he'd always said. Micheal didn't like the idea of missing football on Sundays anyway. But as he sat behind a garbage dumpster in the alleyway beyond an apartment building, cowering like he hadn't in his life among filth and even a rat, Micheal Reed was praying to any god he hoped was listening.
The things edged closer by the minute, and their strange shuffling gait and inhuman moans only served to further unsettle man. He could smell them now, just like he'd smelled the last pack that had shuffled by the alley. He'd learned last time that if he hid absolutely silent and still, they didn't find him. And as much as the proud man hated the idea of hiding like a scared little child, living to see the Raiders beat the 49ers next Sunday held a certain charm for Mr. Reed.
As the monsters passed him by, Micheal exhaled and picked up the flashlight he'd placed on the ground to avoid dropping it. A heavy metal job, its swath of brilliant white light had cut through the thick fog that had rolled in earlier in the night. The fires that had broken out all around Raccoon City had quickly cleared up the fog, and about an hour earlier, the power had come back on, revealing the terrible truth of the matter in a harsh, unyielding orange glow. Even the neon signs that sat on many storefronts along the downtown strip had shed their multicolored glow on the city's horror. Now the only reason Micheal kept the flashlight was for its usefulness as a bludgeon. Plus, it would be helpful for busting into a gun shop, if he could find one.
Micheal slowly stood up from behind the dumpster and calmed his speeding heart. He quietly edged his way up to the front of the apartment building, understandably paranoid at every sound, and looked around the street. Other than a burning car and the heady scent of burnt rubber and something considerably more exotic-charred flesh-the street was clear. Mr. Reed sighed in relief and ran across the street, up onto a pile of junk that would have, at one time, been a newsstand. With the buildings all along that side of the street crumbled by several crashed cars and even a fallen streetlight, Micheal had little recourse but to climb over a building. The newsstand was his easiest route to access the fire-escape ladder.
From there, the dark-haired man clambered onto the fire-escape ladder and then onto the metal scaffolding that led to the roof of the building.
Up on the roof, Reed found himself in more trouble than he needed. A small group of the things, stumbling wildly, were feeding on a still-struggling man whose screams were muffled and choked off by the overpowering smell of death. The monsters' rotted forms oozed various fluids, some recognizable-blood, pus, liquefied flesh-others not. Micheal just about wet his pants with something other than rain when one of the creatures looked at him, groaned a pained sigh, and began shuffling at him.
It was a stomach-churning sight, not nearly human enough to incite even the barest level of sympathy from Reed. All the rotting beast elicited was a terrible, strangled cry of terror from Reed. It was all that could be expected from a person who could see and smell the thing. It's sinews, trailing bits of muscles and skin still attached by fat, hung limply in rolling bundles all about its pant-less legs. Juices squirted in irregular bursts as it walked towards Micheal, sent spraying in fetid dribbles by the weight of its dragging footfalls rather than a pulse. And as it neared Micheal, the one-time private detective and divorcee, the man decided that running would be a good idea just about then, through a fear-clouded sense of judgement.
Micheal let out a small murmur of action to himself, and sluggishly tore himself from the spectacle. The monster was quicker than it looked, which wasn't apparent to the man while he was in his stupor of fear. He made his legs work like they had to if her were to escape, and ran with a burst of uncharacteristic speed to the far side of the roof. Which, to his dismay, meant going past the horde of zombies devouring the poor man. Micheal didn't take any time to think about it, though, and ran with his heart in his throat past them. In his terror, perhaps a blessing rather than just fear, Micheal never noticed one of the monstrosities reach out and try to snag him, tearing instead the flashlight from Micheal's very hands.
Only when he hit the far fire escape did he realize he was without his flashlight.
"Ah, shit. Figures." His voice was without the fear he had earlier been feeling, just seconds previous. That damn flashlight had cost him fifty bucks-on sale! Angered as he was, Micheal wasn't stupid, and got climbing down the ladder as fast as he could, before they decided to get some fresh meat. One, he could escape from. Probably. Six or seven might be a problem, even for an experienced detective, skilled in losing tails or avoiding capture or being seen.
He quickly worked his way down and off of the ladder, letting himself drop from ten feet. Reed wasn't about to go walking around without anything to defend himself with, but without even a serviceable piece of rebar nearby, he had little choice. He picked up a sizeable chunk of concrete from the ruins of a storefront and took a quick look up at the top of the apartment he was on. The monster that had been following him before was now looking down at him with a mournful moan in its throat.
Micheal was on his way in a second, carefully checking everything. He looked around so often that his head was on a swivel. Not that he really needed to look around to find things worthy of making him quicken his step to a fearful lope. To his right, almost twenty yards away, Reed could see a female thing, its clothing tattered and its flesh shredded. What might have been the woman's breasts at one time were now disgusting, hanging pockets of slime rotting faster than the month-old pizza Micheal had forgotten to throw out last week. His belly did flips inside of him, and even though she wasn't close enough yet to be a threat, Micheal knew better than to try to hold his ground. Usually, where there was one, more were sure to be found.
So Reed turned away from the woman, ran down the street, and paused at the location sign.
"Winston and Fifth." Micheal's words were tinted with exhaustion and fear. He was close now, only a block or two away. If he was careful, he could make it there. Just two blocks. And yet it seemed like miles.
Dr. Sean Vasser hadn't quite been himself for the last seven hours. No one had, really. Who expects three drive-by gun wound corpses and a knifing victim to suddenly and dangerously spring back to life, and kill two nurses and an autopsy examiner in the basement? Who expects the seven walking cadavers-zombies, as named by a couple of interns who'd been up too long on the night shift-to come after hundreds of others in the hospital, spilling their speedily decomposed flesh all about the once-sterile hospital floors and instruments, beds and counters? Not Sean Vasser, that was for sure.
Sean and a few others-nurses, first year interns, and a mild influenza patient among them-had been keeping quiet and safe in a doctor's cafeteria on one of the upper hospital floors for nearly three hours.
"Look on the bright side, Doc. At least we won't run out of food!" said RN Amelia Frank, an aging forty-something mother of three whose sense of humor had been seasoned by more than one hardship. Her comment had been made at the earlier outset, when they had first been forced to hide and had thought their call to the police would quickly be answered. Since then, over the fearful hours, conversation had fallen flat and silent, held to quiet jokes to keep spirits as high as could be expected.
The zombies were trapped on their floor, being understandably unable to use stairways or elevators in their post-mortem stupor. Occasionally they would shuffle by in a pack of anywhere between three to seven. But, so far, the doctor and his fellow survivors had been able to keep quiet enough to avoid them giving any 'thought' to their locked cafeteria door.
Vasser wondered now, in light of the some two hundred undead patients, nurses, doctors, and visitors, what his Harvard degrees meant. His mind had been racing for the last seven hours as to the nature of these zombies. He'd been thinking about the possibility of himself being infected, but from what he'd seen, only those in the hospital bitten by the undead monsters were of the tainted blood. And it took little more than a passing gnaw, as the young interns were joking just a few hours ago.
Sean looked around carefully, and stood up. The patients-three of them, only one even remotely serious-were sound asleep, IV units still attached and working. The interns were playing with an apple as though it were a ball along a dining table, but on average three cores beside each of them showed how long that'd last. And the nurses were tending to food and the patients, doing motherly things like they knew best to stay calm. They were making some sort of dough on the wide metal table in the cafeteria, which was joined by two swinging aluminum doors to the industrial kitchen.
"I'll be back in a little while." His announcement came as no shock; he'd been talking about it for a good while before conversation flew away.
"Doctor, be careful. No reason to lose you, just like poor Dr. Gregory and Dr. Hall. Such a waste..." Nurse Frank trailed off in sadness. Grace Hall and Amelia Frank had been friends both at work and away from it for going on twenty years. Dr. Vasser intended to discover firsthand, definitively, what had become of Grace.
"Yeah, Sean. At least take a weapon or something, pal. Even if you don't want to be forced to use it, having a knife or something'll make us all breathe easier. You don't know what you could run into." An intern, Robert Ramirez, spoke up for the first time. Unlike the more vocal younger interns, Ramirez was a quiet and studious type who didn't speak unless it was necessary. Because no one else had said it, he had.
"I'll take one of the big knives from the kitchen, and go down to the fourth floor where my office is by the elevator at the end of the hall. I'll call the police again, and collect a few things to put in my car. From there, I'll go to my car. I have a revolver under my seat. Ill be back in twenty minutes. If I'm not, don't come after me. I won't desert you, and when I get back, we all go together." Vasser meant every word, and everyone there knew it.
Sean took a step toward the polished metal doors, and looked back at the nurses and interns with a reassuring smile. "I'll be back."
The kitchen was a huge room where everything was brushed steel and sanitary. Glove dispensers, dedicated hand washing sinks and disinfectant chemicals abounded at every turn. But in the center was the island that Vasser sought. It held massive wooden knife blocks, containing the sharpest knives manufactured. The blades of these knives ranged from small paring knives to heavy, long-bladed cleavers.
Vasser knew very little about cooking, even less about knives. But Sean could figure out when a knife would be effective or not, and one could easily discern from his passing glances that the paring knives and bread-cutters would just not do. As his hand passed over the racks, the labels under each knife handle would catch his eye. Four-inch steak knife, seven-inch serrated steak knife, softened butter knife, small paring knife... they all seemed too small or too lightweight when he lifted them. Then Sean Vasser, M.D. came upon the rack he wanted. Butcher's knives, tens of them.
When Sean left the kitchen, he'd settled on a very heavy, very sharp, butcher knife with a finely serrated edge. It was a good knife, Sean could tell just by the perfectly molded handle and the equally well made blade. He may have been inept in the kitchen, as his ex-wife had told him so many times, but he wasn't stupid.
Sean's eyes darted warily about the hallway.
Zombies to the right of me, undead nurses to the left, here I am, stuck in the middle with you... Sean's mind wandered to an old song and he laughed through a smile of gritted teeth.
In actuality, the hallway was clear of the undead creatures for all intents and purposes. A lone zombie stood at the end of the hallway, near the elevator, but Sean was certain it hadn't seen him. He was also sure he could evade it well enough when he got closer, and get into the elevator.
Amelia Frank, however, had another word in the matter. Poking her head out of the kitchen door, which Vasser had locked behind him a second time, Amelia told the doctor rather loudly, "Now don't you just go and come crawling back here. You bring survivors, Doctor Vasser."
Doctor Vasser cringed at the volume of her voice, which, unexpected by Sean, went unchecked. Only when the zombie turned around and began to stumble towards the doctor did the nurse realize her mistake.
"Oh, Jesus..." the nurse stood, half in and half out, stunned into paralysis.
"Amelia, get inside and shut the door!" Sean growled, angry both at having his plan ruined, and at having to fight off a zombie. Mrs. Frank did as told, and he could hear the lock click on the other side.
The zombie was a sickening sight, and its overall disgusting nature struck even Sean Vasser, who had seen so many dastardly injuries and spilling wounds in his career as an emergency surgeon. The undead monster's legs were clothed in what looked like doctor's scrubs, although it was hard to discern this from the bloodstained fabric. The top of the zombie was somewhat easier to recognize. A green and red shirt, similar to that worn by a certain female nurse that day, sat upon the top of the zombie. Blood and other murky slimes oozed in a trail behind the undead woman, and as she walked, a chunk of her scalp-hair and all-fell to the floor behind her.
"Oh, God. Patricia!" Sean's pained cry was hear even through the heavy locked door of the dining room.
Patricia Laughton, a petite brunette in life, had been under the eye of Sean for almost a month now. He'd wanted to ask the girl out, but her nursing career and his procrastination had rendered that a wish. Now, her zombified nature rendered that moot.
As she stumbled toward him, Sean heard a sound behind him. Pounding. Pounding and screaming. Pounding and screaming and moaning. He didn't even have to guess, but the no-brainer would have to wait. Patricia was coming at him.
She grunted an equivalent, as far as the doctor could tell, to "food" and lunged at him. Doctor Vasser stabbed blindly outwards with the butcher knife, and connected with her throat. She gurgled, but kept coming at him. Sean drew back the knife, looked carefully this time, and shot the knife into her eye. The zombified nurse clawed at him, but Vasser moved away and around her, and away from the zombie pounding on the kitchen door.
Now he could get a good look at the zombie trying to bust down the door, as Patricia struggled to find him. The zombie at the door paused to look at him with white, soulless eyes, before turning its attention back to the door. With superhuman strength the decayed creature pounded away at the door, and to Vasser, the deep dents in the door made it look like it was about ready to give inward.
Patricia stumbled backward, and then fixed upon Vasser once more. Her blood, dead and dark, fell from her face in a slow, lazy dribble. Her throat, which was decayed and shredded beforehand, bled no more when Sean Vasser stabbed it. She fell forward at him in a semi-controlled fall, and was met right through her chest by the knife. Her eyes, white and without pupils, dimmed slightly, and she fell off the knife.
The other zombie, presumably a cook, had broken the door off its hinges, and shattered the lock. He was inside already and feeding on the screaming form of Amelia Frank.
"My God." Sean's words echoed the thoughts of the rest of the survivors. They stood stunned in the doorway of the kitchen and the adjoining dining room.
"Don't stand there, run!" Sean called. They didn't move as a collective, but rather one patient moved forward. As he entered the light from the hallway, Sean could see what he'd hoped wasn't true. They'd been victims of "a passing gnaw" during their flight to the cafeteria, and now they'd attacked the others.
As Sean ran from the room, he muttered in indignation, "Leave for ten five minutes, they start eating each other. Jesus, it's a cafeteria, not a downed plane. Couldn't they find a granola bar?"