Forever
-chapter twelve
I'm finding my way back to sanity again
Though I don't really know what I'm gonna do
When I get there
Take a breath and hold on tight
Spin around one more time
And gracefully fall back to the arms of grace
Cause I'm hanging on every word you say
And even if you don't wanna speak tonight
That's all right, all right with me
Cause I want nothing more
Than to sit outside heaven's door
And listen to you breathing
That's where I wanna be
Where I wanna be...
~lifehouse, "breathing"
Before she knew what she was doing, Jill Valentine's FN P90 dropped from her
fingers to land with a dull clunk on the museum's floor, the heavily modified and
expensive weapon forgotten. She had seen Chris take the shots. She had seen Chris drop
to his knees, and she had seen Chris fall to the ground, face down, and not move.
Tossing all thoughts of the mission out of her mind and ignoring her common
sense, she broke cover to rush to where Chris had fallen. She heard Claire shout for her to
get back into cover and she heard the loud shots of terrorist AK-74U rounds aimed at her,
but Jill was touched by Lady Luck there and then and she reached Chris unscathed.
Immediately she turned him over, and was horrified to realize the extent of his wounds.
Blood covered most of his chest; his wounds bled profusely and Jill knew she had
to stop the bleeding. Gathering her strength, she dragged his unmoving form behind
another marble art exhibit. The high-pitched whine of bullets whizzed by her head as she
did so.
"Cover fire!! Deploy and eliminate! Tangoes at ten and two!" Leon shouted, not
bothering to use the comm-link. He had taken command of the team the second Chris had
fallen, in accordance with the team protocol. The S.T.A.R.S. had the upper hand due to
Chris' elimination of the terrorist leader and Hunk's frighteningly accurate sniper fire,
but Leon knew more than anyone else that lives still hung in the balance. He squeezed off
three more rounds with his M4a1 before breaking cover himself.
Quickly, Leon dashed over to where Carlos had fallen, and bodily dragged him
behind cover. Carlos groaned in pain, clutching his shoulder wound with his left hand
while he valiantly drew his sidearm with his right and squeezed off a couple of rounds in
the general direction of a terrorist. His eyes widened when he saw Rebecca's unconscious
form lying in a small pool of crimson, perhaps a foot away from where Andy's crumpled
form lay.
For the first time in his life Carlos ignored his instincts that screamed at him to
stay in cover. Instead, the Alpha Team member broke cover again and dashed to where
Rebecca lay, falling on top of her body, covering her with his own. He didn't move, and
didn't know if Rebecca was still alive; he only held her tightly beside him, willing to
sacrifice himself for her, if she wasn't already dead. He didn't realize that tears were
already falling down his cheeks.
He clutched one of her lifeless hands in his own, and squeezed it tightly. He
closed his eyes, and waited for the end that he was almost certain would come.
* * *
Jill, meanwhile, had torn off her outer shirt and torn it into strips to cover Chris'
wounds with. She was completely unaware of the fact that bullets were still flying by her
and that a piece of shrapnel had given her a shallow flesh wound on her upper arm; she
ignored the warm blood that was dripping down her bicep and tied the makeshift bandage
as tightly around Chris' wounds as best she could.
"Chris... Chris... No... Die on me and I'll kick your fucking ass, you bastard..."
she found herself saying to him. She knew he didn't hear her, but she found the words
coming out of her mouth faster than she knew she was saying them. Her eyes with blurry
with tears, sweat, and maybe blood, and she wiped them clean with the back of her
gloved hand.
Satisfied she could do whatever she could, she took Chris' head and put it in her
lap, cradling him and shielding him with her body. She hugged him tightly against her
body, and amidst the loud crackle of gunfire and the screams of the dying and the
wounded, Jill Valentine cried.
* * *
On the rooftop opposite the museum and what seemed to be a world away from
the carnage and mayhem, Hunk pumped shot after shot into terrorist positions.
Aim. Fire. Pull Pin.
Aim. Fire. Pull Pin.
Aim. Fire. Pull Pin.
Not every shot Hunk took killed a terrorist. When he did hit, however, he tried to
kill. No mercy existed in the Alpha sniper. The terrorists had hurt innocent people; they
deserved nothing better than death. Besides, Hunk didn't know how many of his
teammates or civilians were injured or even killed by these terrorists; it was best that he
made sure they could do no more evil this day.
Aim. Fire. Pull Pin. Another man falls to the ground, crimson pooling around him,
clutching at his throat, trying to keep his lifeblood from escaping in a vain attempt to
keep the inevitable shadow of death from claiming him.
Like a machine, Hunk pulled the firing pin of the sniper rifle back, tossing the
empty shell out of the rifle to land with a dull -chink- on the floor next to at least fifteen
other spent shells. His scope found another target; the small boy he was observing earlier.
The boy was firing into the S.T.A.R.S.' positions, but the boy was clearly too young to
handle a gun and thus the strong recoil of the AK made his accuracy less than impressive.
Hunk's crosshairs landed on the boy's forehead...
...but then the same crosshairs went to the boy's hands that shakily held the rifle.
Hunk took the shot, hitting the boy in the middle of the hand and causing him to scream
in pain. The gun dropped from pained fingers, and the boy scrambled behind a marble
exhibit and stayed there, crying and shouting in pain.
Satisfied the boy was out of the fight, Hunk pulled the firing pin back yet again
and looked for another target. Several seconds later, his bullet fired from his gun but
missed the forehead of a terrorist by scant inches.
Pull Pin. His scope darted back and forth, looking almost desperately for his
target. There he was. Without so much as a split second's thought, he aimed and fired at
his target once again. The shot hit the man in the upper chest, seconds before fire from
Barry's M4a1 riddled his chest with bullets. Hunk scanned the floor for another target
through his scope, wanting - almost craving - another target, the adrenaline and rush of
combat taking over his senses. When he found none, he swore out loud.
Relaxing slightly, Hunk looked through the scope to where his beleaguered
comrades were rising from their cover to do a final sweep of the floor. Leon led the way,
directing those that could to sweep the floor and take the surviving terrorists into custody.
The remaining S.T.A.R.S. members tended to the wounded as best they could, be they
friend, foe, or civilian. Through his scope, Hunk found that several Alpha members and
civilian hostages lay crumpled and broken on the floor, their bodies not moving.
Suddenly angered, Hunk took the sniper rifle and threw it violently away from
him, as hard as his tensed muscles could throw it. The gun landed several feet away, the
scope shattering into a thousand pieces and the barrel of the gun snapping off. He opened
his bulletproof vest, reaching into his shirt to take out the small crucifix he had around
his neck. He kissed it, and, falling to his knees, said a silent prayer for the souls of those
he had failed to save.
* * *
Thirty minutes later:
* * *
Dr.Bryce brushed a stray lock of blonde-dyed hair away from her eyes as she
finished signing the last piece of paperwork of the day. It was a long, tiring day she had
just had and she was looking forward to going home and curling up with a book and a
glass of red wine next to the fireplace.
She was physically exhausted; sometimes she wondered why she became a doctor
in the first place. Sometimes she came home with aching feet and sore muscles.
Sometimes she came home promising to herself that she would quit her physically
exhausting job the very next day. However, whenever she came close to handing in her
letter or resignation, one look at the patients that she helped recover removed all doubt
from her mind.
Just as she was about to go into the emergency room to say goodbye to Anne, the
triage nurse, Anne herself threw open the emergency room doors. With her, on a
stretcher, was a young man with a hastily tied bandage covering what looked to Dr.Bryce
to be gun shot wounds. Several nurses pushed the stretcher along, one of them holding up
an IV. A young woman with an unbandaged flesh wound on her shoulder accompanied
the stretcher, clutching the young man's hand.
Dr.Bryce immediately threw out all thoughts of books, red wine, and fireplaces.
She rushed to the stretcher, and said to one of the nurses:
"What do we have?"
* * *
"Multiple gun shot wounds. He's lost a lot of blood, Doctor." the nurse answered
to the newly arrived female doctor.
"Exit wounds?" the doctor asked.
"Two of them. He's still got one in him."
"Get him prepped for surgery. Room 26-7. I'll be there in five. Get him a
transfusion ASAP. What type is he?"
"O!" Jill said immediately, "he's type O. I'll give blood! Take every drop, just
make sure he-"
"Miss!" the doctor said, bodily taking Jill by the shoulders and staring at her in
the eye, "you'll need to stay here. Get your shoulder checked. We'll do what we can for
your friend. You have my word."
It took several seconds for the words to sink in for Jill, who's eyes still followed
Chris' stretcher until it disappeared behind double doors. She made no attempt to wipe
away the tears that were flowing freely down her dirty, sweat-stained and bloody cheeks.
After a while, she looked at the young female doctor holding her by the shoulders, as if
she never realized she was there. The doctor had a determined look on her face.
"But... I..."
"Miss. I need you to be strong for me. Can you do that?"
After several seconds of trying to force herself to remember how to speak, Jill
answered shakily, "I... I... I can."
The doctor turned and headed towards the operating room, giving Jill a last
glance before disappearing behind the same double doors Chris' stretcher went through.
Nurses and orderlies alike rushed past Jill, tending to the wounded, both soldier and
civilian alike. Stretchers passed them carrying the dying and wounded, though whether
they carried enemy or friend, Jill didn't know or care. Jill had buried her face in her
hands, fresh tears flowing, staining her palms.
Her legs were weak, and she didn't know how or why she kept standing, but she
did. She wanted to find a place to sit and rest, but her body didn't obey her brain's orders.
She stayed still, standing there, crying into her palms, as people rushed passed her
doing their best to save lives. The screams and groans of the wounded and dying
registered in her ears, but not in her brain.
All she could do was cry.
* * *
Barry, Leon, Claire, Hunk, and Andy gathered in the hospital lobby, watching as
hospital staff rushed to and fro, doing what they could for the seemingly endless stream
of injured and dying people brought in by ambulances.
Leon held Claire tightly in his arms, the odd tear falling down his cheek. Claire
was crying unreservedly into his chest; she found out what happened to Chris. Barry was
sitting down, running his hands through his hair, a worried expression that none have
seen before on his face. Andy, his wounds turning out to be merely flesh wounds, had his
wounds bandaged and was also sitting down, his hands together in front of him as if in
prayer. His mouth moved slowly, as if he was whispering a prayer. Hunk had a cold,
emotionless look on his face, his eyes closed. He was holding his crucifix in his hand, his
fingers playing with the cold metal of the cross.
An hour or a day or a year passed while the Alpha members sat there; no one said
a word, and no one knew how much time was going by.
Eventually, Carlos stumbled to the crowded lobby as well. His arm was in a sling
and his shoulder heavily bandaged. No longer the cocky self-proclaimed ladies-man, but
now humbled, eyes red with tears.
Leon, Claire, Barry, Hunk, and Andy looked up at Carlos, as if to ask without
talking how Rebecca, who entered surgery earlier, was doing.
"She's... she's... the doctors... she's in stable condition."
"That's great news, Carlos." Barry said, his voice wanting to be enthusiastic but
failing to be so. At this, Carlos took a look around, as if looking for the strength to say
what he needed to say somewhere around him. He brought his hand to his mouth, as if he
wanted to vomit but couldn't.
"No... she... dey said.. de doctors.. dat... it depends on what happens overnight,
but if things go bad... she might not walk again."
* * *
She didn't know how she got to the hospital bench she was sitting on, but
somehow she got there. She didn't know when or who bandaged up the shallow wound
on her shoulder, either. Tears, sweat, and a thin rivulet of dried blood flowed down her
face, but she didn't care.
Jill could only stare straight ahead at nothing in particular. She wanted to cry, but
she had run out of tears somehow. She could only sit there, doing nothing, as if in a
coma. Somewhere, some time, a nurse came by and gave her a cold bottle of drinking
water and told her to drink it, but the bottle still stood unopened on the floor next to her.
The large form of Barry Burton appeared, almost if from no where. She only
realized he was there when he tapped her on the shoulder.
"How's it going, Jilly?" Barry asked, his voice failing to show any emotion.
Jill looked up at Barry, as if it was the first time she had seen him in his life. For
several seconds, she sat there, looking up at Barry, trying to remember his name. She
wanted to answer, but her voice failed her and she didn't speak.
Barry sat next to her.
"Go get cleaned up, Jilly. Chris'll be fine. If I know him, he'll keep fighting. He
won't give up. I know him. He was our old partner, you know."
Jill looked at Barry, her emotion not changing. She knew Barry was trying to
make her feel better, and she appreciated it, but he wasn't helping. He heard the words
coming out of his mouth, but they didn't hold any meaning for her. She wanted to ask
him how the rest of the team was doing, but again, for some reason she wasn't able to.
All she could think of was Chris, replaying the three seconds of time that seemed
like an eternity for her. The three seconds that it took for three bullets to hit Chris. She
remembered every minute detail of it. She remembered the way his body jerked back
from the impact of the first bullet, the expression on his face, the small splash of blood
that flew from the wound as the bullet found a home in Chris' body. And that was just
the first bullet. She replayed the scene over and over again in her mind. Most of all
though, she remembered how she sat there, helpless, unable to prevent any of it from
happening.
"Go get cleaned up, Jill. You don't want Chris mistaking you for a zombie when
he gets out of that operating room. There's a shower down there, second door on the
right." Barry said, trying to smile and only barely managing one.
"I'll hold down the fort. Don't you worry, Jilly."
He placed some clothes in Jill's lap. They looked like a white t-shirt and some
blue nurses' pants; Barry probably borrowed them from one of the staff.
Slowly, as if it took every ounce of strength in her body, she got up and made her
way towards the showers Barry had pointed out for her. Everything seemed to happen in
slow motion now.
She wanted to smile for Barry, but her life, her emotions, her very essence was
shattered that night. She didn't know if she could ever smile again.
* * *
The night seemed to last forever for the S.T.A.R.S.. Casualties as a result of the
mission were high, but not enough for the mission to be deemed a failure. Of the fifty
hostages, fourty-four were left unhurt by the firefight, while three were sent to the
hospital with minor injuries, then released. Two were in critical but stable condition and
were expected to make a full recovery. One was killed, though it was as a result of a
heart-attack the old woman had suffered before the S.T.A.R.S.'s mission when the
terrorists had first taken control of the building.
No one counted the mental scars that the night's events would leave on the
victims, but they escaped with their lives and there was nothing more the S.T.A.R.S. or
anyone else could do for them. Counselors were on hand, trying their best to bandage the
mental wounds.
Each of the hostages were debriefed, and within an hour or two of the mission
they were all released to their waiting families. These were upper class citizens that were
taken hostage, and thus the media was all over the story from the start. Officer Norwood,
who was in formal command of the operation before the S.T.A.R.S. took over, handled
the press conference. It was now three o'clock in the morning. Amidst the flashing lights
of cameras, Norwood and Leon made their official comments.
"At approximately 4:35pm local time," Norwood began, "an armed group of
terrorists stormed and took over control of the Cloud C. Strife Memorium Art Museum,
taking at least fifty-two hostages and making several demands. There was a small
cocktail party going on inside the Art Museum for a number of high-ranking political
diplomats. A number of these diplomats managed to escape as the terrorists made their
attack, but many were also taken hostage.
"A sortie by the Charlie Team of the Special Tactics And Rescue Squad,
commanded by Lieutenant Barry Burton, attempted to regain control of the building. The
sortie failed, resulting in the deaths of four S.T.A.R.S. team members. In retaliation, the
terrorists executed a single hostage."
The crowd of reporters let out an audible -gasp- when Norwood stated that a
single man had been killed by a failed S.T.A.R.S. sortie. They answered with a flurry of
questions regarding the dead diplomat, but Norwood silenced them by raising his hand
and speaking once more.
"After the execution of the hostage, the Alpha Team of the Special Tactics And
Rescue Squad promptly arrived on scene and provided their services. This team was
headed by Captain Christopher Redfield."
Again, the reporters nodded as they recognized Chris from the Umbrella Crusade.
Chris had grown into somewhat of a small household name since the Crusade, but it was
two years ago and his popularity had died down somewhat. Still, the reporters knew and
remembered him well enough.
"It was decided," Norwood continued, "that a sortie by the Alpha Team and a
second attempt to re-take the building was our best option at the time. Captain Redfield
is not available at this time for comment due to injuries sustained in the operation.
Lieutenant Leon Kennedy was a member of this sortie and he will speak now on behalf of
the S.T.A.R.S."
Norwood stepped aside and allowed Leon, who was waiting patiently behind
Norwood, to speak. Leon was still in full operational uniform, combat vest and all. His
M4 was still slung across his back. The darkness around his eyes made the fact that he
was extremely fatigued clear to the public. With a sigh, Leon cleared his throat and
spoke.
"At approximately 6:37pm local time, the Alpha Team was inserted into the Art
Museum. An attempt to stealthily infiltrate the building was made, but the terrorists had
evidently gained control of the security cameras around the building, making such a
stealthy infiltration impossible. The terrorists caught and incapacitated us, before
bringing us into the same room as the hostages.
"We managed to break our bonds and surprise the terrorists. It was then that a
small firefight ensued, resulting in the wounding of several S.T.A.R.S. members and
civilians. All in all, however, the hostages were left largely unhurt save for small
scratches. Of the fifty-one hostages in the room with us at the time, fifty were saved and
taken to St.Cid Highwind Hospital. One woman had evidently died of a heart attack
pre-ceeding any of the S.T.A.R.S. sorties."
A flurry of questions bombarded Leon the second he stopped talking. Flashbulbs
flashed in his tired eyes and he would want nothing more than to whip out his M4 and
mow down the media, but somehow he resisted. It took every fibre of strength in his
being to do so. A single reporter managed to win the floor and make a statement towards
Leon.
"You mean to say that it took two sorties to successfully save hostages? Your
failure, Lieutenant Kennedy, resulted in the deaths of two hostages. What do you have to
say about this? And Officer Norwood, are you sure sending in pre-pubescent boys to save
fifty important diplomats was the right decision?" a middle-aged, finely dressed and
seemingly stuck-up reporter demanded.
Instantly angered, Leon whipped his sidearm out of his thigh holster. The crowd
was alarmed.
"Four of my friends fought, bled, and died to save fourty-nine lives. My Captain
may make that total five," he began with a strong, angry tone, "let's see you do better,
you fucking piece of horse-shit. Don't you dare call me or any of my team boys."
Leon threw the 9mm USP into the reporter's chest roughly. With that, he turned
and walked away, leaving Officer Norwood to contend with the media.
* * *
Meanwhile, at St.Cid Highwind Hospital, Leon's Captain lay on a hospital bed,
the rest of the team gathered around him. After a two and a half hour operation, the
doctors had managed to remove the last bullet from Chris' body and did their best to
clean his wounds. A blood transfusion quickly followed, and though the doctors had done
everything in their power to ensure his survival, Chris' internal organs were heavily
damaged by the bullets and his fate was still unknown.
The beep-beep-beep of the machine hooked up to Chris let the team know that
their Captain was still alive. Jill, who had showered quickly and changed, was holding
Chris' hand tightly in hers, as if doing so would somehow help him survive. The team
around him regarded their wounded Captain as he fought for his life.
They had learned an hour earlier that Rebecca would survive her wounds, though
whether she would be able to walk normally again was still another question. The bullet
that had hit her just above the waistline had come dangerously close to her spine. Though
the doctors were successful in removing it, they were still unsure as to the extent of the
damage to Beccy's spine. They would be able to tell for sure in a week. For now, Carlos
sat by her side.
The other S.T.A.R.S. members who weren't involved with the Umbrella Crusade
stayed in the hallway outside. Barry had told them it was okay to go home, and that they
would take care of things from here, but they refused. Barry was impressed by their
loyalty, and thanked them for it.
"He'll be fine, girls," Barry said, speaking in particular to Jill and Claire, "he
won't give up. He hasn't in the past and he won't now."
"He better live," Claire said through sobs and sniffs, "because if he doesn't I'm
gonna kick his fucking fat ass from here to Austrailia. You hear me Chris?" she said, a
sad smile appearing on her tear-stained face. She stroked his forehead lovingly, brushing
his hair back. "Don't die. That's an order, Chris."
"Me too, you piece of shit," Jill said softly, "die and I'll kick your ass too."
Tears were going down their cheeks, but the two women managed weak smiles,
managing to keep hope fresh in their minds. Hope was all they had.
* * *
Two more hours passed. It was now five in the morning, almost twelve hours
since the start of the Alpha mission. Everyone but Jill had left Chris' room; Claire was
asleep on a couch just outside the door, while everyone else had found places to sleep in
chairs and spare beds elsewhere in the hospital.
Jill clutched Chris hand and never let go. For hours, she tried her best to stay
awake, staring at Chris' face through the oxygen mask he was wearing, stroking his hair
back or whatever. She whispered things to him, talked to him, even though she knew he
didn't hear her. She talked about the old times, back in Raccoon City. Although it was
only really three or four years ago, it seemed decades old in Jill's mind. She talked about
old cases they worked on together, and the good times, like when Joseph planted a stink
bomb in Brad's locker, or when Chris won that marksmanship trophy, or when Edward
finally got a date with that pretty receptionist at the front desk and the whole team
watched him ask her out.
Once, she even sung a verse of "Killing Me Softly" to Chris, when she
remembered a time when for her birthday, Chris had shown up with Joseph, Edward, and
Kenneth at her front door and together they sung the song to her. Jill wondered if hospital
staff that passed her door heard her talking to Chris and wondered if she was going crazy,
but she didn't care. All that mattered was that she was with Chris. What anyone else
thought was of no consequence to her.
It surprised her that she was this upbeat. A couple of hours ago she was sad
because she didn't know what to do. She felt overwhelmed by the emotions. But now she
felt better. She found herself smiling or laughing a couple of times as the hours passed. It
was almost as if she was -sure- he would live.
For one hour, she found herself doing nothing but watching him breathe, in and
out, in and out. She watched and marveled at it all, thought about the air going in and out
of his lungs and how precious it was both to him and to her.
"Listening to you breathing is enough, Chris Redfield," she found herself saying.
Eventually though, not even the mighty Jill Valentine could last twenty-four hours
without sleep and she found herself dozing off. When she finally decided to go to sleep
for sure, she gave Chris one last kiss on the forehead goodnight. Then she pulled her
chair closer to his bed and laid her head down on the bed next to his hand. Then she
closed her eyes, and went to drifted off into a welcome sleep.
Jill wasn't usually a religious person, but she found herself making the sign of the
cross and saying a small prayer she remembered from when she was a kid and her mother
brought her along to Church. It was the least she could do, really.
Before the welcome embrace of sleep came and carried her off, she managed to
say one last thing to Chris.
"I love you. Die on me while I sleep and I'll kick your ass, bastard."
Jill didn't know if it was her dreams or actually Chris himself, but she swore she
felt Chris run his hand through her hair before caressing her cheek gently and squeezing
her hand reassuringly. It brought a smile to her, and she fell asleep with that smile still on
her lips.
Author's Note:
Booyah. There it is. Yes, I know it's been a VERY long time since the last
update, but hey, things get in the way and you guys should be used to my overall laziness
by now. I got this chapter done in record time; two days, to be exact, and it's really all
due to the emails and reviews you guys leave here on ff.net. It really means a lot and
those reviews are what've kept me writing. Thank you for that.
But yeah, now that I'm back into the writing mood expect another chapter soon.
Of course, 'soon' could be anytime from now until the apocalypse, but oh well. I hope
you guys liked the chapter, cuz I really feel it's one of the better chapters of the story.
Hopefully you guys think so as well. I think the lyrics I chose really fit in with the song,
too. Lifehouse rocks.
Disclaimer: Resident Evil and all the stuff associated with it are property of
Capcom, so don't sue me. I'm poor. All I have of value is my PS2 and my guitar. Really.
Peace, and a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to one and all.
~hustler one
-chapter twelve
I'm finding my way back to sanity again
Though I don't really know what I'm gonna do
When I get there
Take a breath and hold on tight
Spin around one more time
And gracefully fall back to the arms of grace
Cause I'm hanging on every word you say
And even if you don't wanna speak tonight
That's all right, all right with me
Cause I want nothing more
Than to sit outside heaven's door
And listen to you breathing
That's where I wanna be
Where I wanna be...
~lifehouse, "breathing"
Before she knew what she was doing, Jill Valentine's FN P90 dropped from her
fingers to land with a dull clunk on the museum's floor, the heavily modified and
expensive weapon forgotten. She had seen Chris take the shots. She had seen Chris drop
to his knees, and she had seen Chris fall to the ground, face down, and not move.
Tossing all thoughts of the mission out of her mind and ignoring her common
sense, she broke cover to rush to where Chris had fallen. She heard Claire shout for her to
get back into cover and she heard the loud shots of terrorist AK-74U rounds aimed at her,
but Jill was touched by Lady Luck there and then and she reached Chris unscathed.
Immediately she turned him over, and was horrified to realize the extent of his wounds.
Blood covered most of his chest; his wounds bled profusely and Jill knew she had
to stop the bleeding. Gathering her strength, she dragged his unmoving form behind
another marble art exhibit. The high-pitched whine of bullets whizzed by her head as she
did so.
"Cover fire!! Deploy and eliminate! Tangoes at ten and two!" Leon shouted, not
bothering to use the comm-link. He had taken command of the team the second Chris had
fallen, in accordance with the team protocol. The S.T.A.R.S. had the upper hand due to
Chris' elimination of the terrorist leader and Hunk's frighteningly accurate sniper fire,
but Leon knew more than anyone else that lives still hung in the balance. He squeezed off
three more rounds with his M4a1 before breaking cover himself.
Quickly, Leon dashed over to where Carlos had fallen, and bodily dragged him
behind cover. Carlos groaned in pain, clutching his shoulder wound with his left hand
while he valiantly drew his sidearm with his right and squeezed off a couple of rounds in
the general direction of a terrorist. His eyes widened when he saw Rebecca's unconscious
form lying in a small pool of crimson, perhaps a foot away from where Andy's crumpled
form lay.
For the first time in his life Carlos ignored his instincts that screamed at him to
stay in cover. Instead, the Alpha Team member broke cover again and dashed to where
Rebecca lay, falling on top of her body, covering her with his own. He didn't move, and
didn't know if Rebecca was still alive; he only held her tightly beside him, willing to
sacrifice himself for her, if she wasn't already dead. He didn't realize that tears were
already falling down his cheeks.
He clutched one of her lifeless hands in his own, and squeezed it tightly. He
closed his eyes, and waited for the end that he was almost certain would come.
* * *
Jill, meanwhile, had torn off her outer shirt and torn it into strips to cover Chris'
wounds with. She was completely unaware of the fact that bullets were still flying by her
and that a piece of shrapnel had given her a shallow flesh wound on her upper arm; she
ignored the warm blood that was dripping down her bicep and tied the makeshift bandage
as tightly around Chris' wounds as best she could.
"Chris... Chris... No... Die on me and I'll kick your fucking ass, you bastard..."
she found herself saying to him. She knew he didn't hear her, but she found the words
coming out of her mouth faster than she knew she was saying them. Her eyes with blurry
with tears, sweat, and maybe blood, and she wiped them clean with the back of her
gloved hand.
Satisfied she could do whatever she could, she took Chris' head and put it in her
lap, cradling him and shielding him with her body. She hugged him tightly against her
body, and amidst the loud crackle of gunfire and the screams of the dying and the
wounded, Jill Valentine cried.
* * *
On the rooftop opposite the museum and what seemed to be a world away from
the carnage and mayhem, Hunk pumped shot after shot into terrorist positions.
Aim. Fire. Pull Pin.
Aim. Fire. Pull Pin.
Aim. Fire. Pull Pin.
Not every shot Hunk took killed a terrorist. When he did hit, however, he tried to
kill. No mercy existed in the Alpha sniper. The terrorists had hurt innocent people; they
deserved nothing better than death. Besides, Hunk didn't know how many of his
teammates or civilians were injured or even killed by these terrorists; it was best that he
made sure they could do no more evil this day.
Aim. Fire. Pull Pin. Another man falls to the ground, crimson pooling around him,
clutching at his throat, trying to keep his lifeblood from escaping in a vain attempt to
keep the inevitable shadow of death from claiming him.
Like a machine, Hunk pulled the firing pin of the sniper rifle back, tossing the
empty shell out of the rifle to land with a dull -chink- on the floor next to at least fifteen
other spent shells. His scope found another target; the small boy he was observing earlier.
The boy was firing into the S.T.A.R.S.' positions, but the boy was clearly too young to
handle a gun and thus the strong recoil of the AK made his accuracy less than impressive.
Hunk's crosshairs landed on the boy's forehead...
...but then the same crosshairs went to the boy's hands that shakily held the rifle.
Hunk took the shot, hitting the boy in the middle of the hand and causing him to scream
in pain. The gun dropped from pained fingers, and the boy scrambled behind a marble
exhibit and stayed there, crying and shouting in pain.
Satisfied the boy was out of the fight, Hunk pulled the firing pin back yet again
and looked for another target. Several seconds later, his bullet fired from his gun but
missed the forehead of a terrorist by scant inches.
Pull Pin. His scope darted back and forth, looking almost desperately for his
target. There he was. Without so much as a split second's thought, he aimed and fired at
his target once again. The shot hit the man in the upper chest, seconds before fire from
Barry's M4a1 riddled his chest with bullets. Hunk scanned the floor for another target
through his scope, wanting - almost craving - another target, the adrenaline and rush of
combat taking over his senses. When he found none, he swore out loud.
Relaxing slightly, Hunk looked through the scope to where his beleaguered
comrades were rising from their cover to do a final sweep of the floor. Leon led the way,
directing those that could to sweep the floor and take the surviving terrorists into custody.
The remaining S.T.A.R.S. members tended to the wounded as best they could, be they
friend, foe, or civilian. Through his scope, Hunk found that several Alpha members and
civilian hostages lay crumpled and broken on the floor, their bodies not moving.
Suddenly angered, Hunk took the sniper rifle and threw it violently away from
him, as hard as his tensed muscles could throw it. The gun landed several feet away, the
scope shattering into a thousand pieces and the barrel of the gun snapping off. He opened
his bulletproof vest, reaching into his shirt to take out the small crucifix he had around
his neck. He kissed it, and, falling to his knees, said a silent prayer for the souls of those
he had failed to save.
* * *
Thirty minutes later:
* * *
Dr.Bryce brushed a stray lock of blonde-dyed hair away from her eyes as she
finished signing the last piece of paperwork of the day. It was a long, tiring day she had
just had and she was looking forward to going home and curling up with a book and a
glass of red wine next to the fireplace.
She was physically exhausted; sometimes she wondered why she became a doctor
in the first place. Sometimes she came home with aching feet and sore muscles.
Sometimes she came home promising to herself that she would quit her physically
exhausting job the very next day. However, whenever she came close to handing in her
letter or resignation, one look at the patients that she helped recover removed all doubt
from her mind.
Just as she was about to go into the emergency room to say goodbye to Anne, the
triage nurse, Anne herself threw open the emergency room doors. With her, on a
stretcher, was a young man with a hastily tied bandage covering what looked to Dr.Bryce
to be gun shot wounds. Several nurses pushed the stretcher along, one of them holding up
an IV. A young woman with an unbandaged flesh wound on her shoulder accompanied
the stretcher, clutching the young man's hand.
Dr.Bryce immediately threw out all thoughts of books, red wine, and fireplaces.
She rushed to the stretcher, and said to one of the nurses:
"What do we have?"
* * *
"Multiple gun shot wounds. He's lost a lot of blood, Doctor." the nurse answered
to the newly arrived female doctor.
"Exit wounds?" the doctor asked.
"Two of them. He's still got one in him."
"Get him prepped for surgery. Room 26-7. I'll be there in five. Get him a
transfusion ASAP. What type is he?"
"O!" Jill said immediately, "he's type O. I'll give blood! Take every drop, just
make sure he-"
"Miss!" the doctor said, bodily taking Jill by the shoulders and staring at her in
the eye, "you'll need to stay here. Get your shoulder checked. We'll do what we can for
your friend. You have my word."
It took several seconds for the words to sink in for Jill, who's eyes still followed
Chris' stretcher until it disappeared behind double doors. She made no attempt to wipe
away the tears that were flowing freely down her dirty, sweat-stained and bloody cheeks.
After a while, she looked at the young female doctor holding her by the shoulders, as if
she never realized she was there. The doctor had a determined look on her face.
"But... I..."
"Miss. I need you to be strong for me. Can you do that?"
After several seconds of trying to force herself to remember how to speak, Jill
answered shakily, "I... I... I can."
The doctor turned and headed towards the operating room, giving Jill a last
glance before disappearing behind the same double doors Chris' stretcher went through.
Nurses and orderlies alike rushed past Jill, tending to the wounded, both soldier and
civilian alike. Stretchers passed them carrying the dying and wounded, though whether
they carried enemy or friend, Jill didn't know or care. Jill had buried her face in her
hands, fresh tears flowing, staining her palms.
Her legs were weak, and she didn't know how or why she kept standing, but she
did. She wanted to find a place to sit and rest, but her body didn't obey her brain's orders.
She stayed still, standing there, crying into her palms, as people rushed passed her
doing their best to save lives. The screams and groans of the wounded and dying
registered in her ears, but not in her brain.
All she could do was cry.
* * *
Barry, Leon, Claire, Hunk, and Andy gathered in the hospital lobby, watching as
hospital staff rushed to and fro, doing what they could for the seemingly endless stream
of injured and dying people brought in by ambulances.
Leon held Claire tightly in his arms, the odd tear falling down his cheek. Claire
was crying unreservedly into his chest; she found out what happened to Chris. Barry was
sitting down, running his hands through his hair, a worried expression that none have
seen before on his face. Andy, his wounds turning out to be merely flesh wounds, had his
wounds bandaged and was also sitting down, his hands together in front of him as if in
prayer. His mouth moved slowly, as if he was whispering a prayer. Hunk had a cold,
emotionless look on his face, his eyes closed. He was holding his crucifix in his hand, his
fingers playing with the cold metal of the cross.
An hour or a day or a year passed while the Alpha members sat there; no one said
a word, and no one knew how much time was going by.
Eventually, Carlos stumbled to the crowded lobby as well. His arm was in a sling
and his shoulder heavily bandaged. No longer the cocky self-proclaimed ladies-man, but
now humbled, eyes red with tears.
Leon, Claire, Barry, Hunk, and Andy looked up at Carlos, as if to ask without
talking how Rebecca, who entered surgery earlier, was doing.
"She's... she's... the doctors... she's in stable condition."
"That's great news, Carlos." Barry said, his voice wanting to be enthusiastic but
failing to be so. At this, Carlos took a look around, as if looking for the strength to say
what he needed to say somewhere around him. He brought his hand to his mouth, as if he
wanted to vomit but couldn't.
"No... she... dey said.. de doctors.. dat... it depends on what happens overnight,
but if things go bad... she might not walk again."
* * *
She didn't know how she got to the hospital bench she was sitting on, but
somehow she got there. She didn't know when or who bandaged up the shallow wound
on her shoulder, either. Tears, sweat, and a thin rivulet of dried blood flowed down her
face, but she didn't care.
Jill could only stare straight ahead at nothing in particular. She wanted to cry, but
she had run out of tears somehow. She could only sit there, doing nothing, as if in a
coma. Somewhere, some time, a nurse came by and gave her a cold bottle of drinking
water and told her to drink it, but the bottle still stood unopened on the floor next to her.
The large form of Barry Burton appeared, almost if from no where. She only
realized he was there when he tapped her on the shoulder.
"How's it going, Jilly?" Barry asked, his voice failing to show any emotion.
Jill looked up at Barry, as if it was the first time she had seen him in his life. For
several seconds, she sat there, looking up at Barry, trying to remember his name. She
wanted to answer, but her voice failed her and she didn't speak.
Barry sat next to her.
"Go get cleaned up, Jilly. Chris'll be fine. If I know him, he'll keep fighting. He
won't give up. I know him. He was our old partner, you know."
Jill looked at Barry, her emotion not changing. She knew Barry was trying to
make her feel better, and she appreciated it, but he wasn't helping. He heard the words
coming out of his mouth, but they didn't hold any meaning for her. She wanted to ask
him how the rest of the team was doing, but again, for some reason she wasn't able to.
All she could think of was Chris, replaying the three seconds of time that seemed
like an eternity for her. The three seconds that it took for three bullets to hit Chris. She
remembered every minute detail of it. She remembered the way his body jerked back
from the impact of the first bullet, the expression on his face, the small splash of blood
that flew from the wound as the bullet found a home in Chris' body. And that was just
the first bullet. She replayed the scene over and over again in her mind. Most of all
though, she remembered how she sat there, helpless, unable to prevent any of it from
happening.
"Go get cleaned up, Jill. You don't want Chris mistaking you for a zombie when
he gets out of that operating room. There's a shower down there, second door on the
right." Barry said, trying to smile and only barely managing one.
"I'll hold down the fort. Don't you worry, Jilly."
He placed some clothes in Jill's lap. They looked like a white t-shirt and some
blue nurses' pants; Barry probably borrowed them from one of the staff.
Slowly, as if it took every ounce of strength in her body, she got up and made her
way towards the showers Barry had pointed out for her. Everything seemed to happen in
slow motion now.
She wanted to smile for Barry, but her life, her emotions, her very essence was
shattered that night. She didn't know if she could ever smile again.
* * *
The night seemed to last forever for the S.T.A.R.S.. Casualties as a result of the
mission were high, but not enough for the mission to be deemed a failure. Of the fifty
hostages, fourty-four were left unhurt by the firefight, while three were sent to the
hospital with minor injuries, then released. Two were in critical but stable condition and
were expected to make a full recovery. One was killed, though it was as a result of a
heart-attack the old woman had suffered before the S.T.A.R.S.'s mission when the
terrorists had first taken control of the building.
No one counted the mental scars that the night's events would leave on the
victims, but they escaped with their lives and there was nothing more the S.T.A.R.S. or
anyone else could do for them. Counselors were on hand, trying their best to bandage the
mental wounds.
Each of the hostages were debriefed, and within an hour or two of the mission
they were all released to their waiting families. These were upper class citizens that were
taken hostage, and thus the media was all over the story from the start. Officer Norwood,
who was in formal command of the operation before the S.T.A.R.S. took over, handled
the press conference. It was now three o'clock in the morning. Amidst the flashing lights
of cameras, Norwood and Leon made their official comments.
"At approximately 4:35pm local time," Norwood began, "an armed group of
terrorists stormed and took over control of the Cloud C. Strife Memorium Art Museum,
taking at least fifty-two hostages and making several demands. There was a small
cocktail party going on inside the Art Museum for a number of high-ranking political
diplomats. A number of these diplomats managed to escape as the terrorists made their
attack, but many were also taken hostage.
"A sortie by the Charlie Team of the Special Tactics And Rescue Squad,
commanded by Lieutenant Barry Burton, attempted to regain control of the building. The
sortie failed, resulting in the deaths of four S.T.A.R.S. team members. In retaliation, the
terrorists executed a single hostage."
The crowd of reporters let out an audible -gasp- when Norwood stated that a
single man had been killed by a failed S.T.A.R.S. sortie. They answered with a flurry of
questions regarding the dead diplomat, but Norwood silenced them by raising his hand
and speaking once more.
"After the execution of the hostage, the Alpha Team of the Special Tactics And
Rescue Squad promptly arrived on scene and provided their services. This team was
headed by Captain Christopher Redfield."
Again, the reporters nodded as they recognized Chris from the Umbrella Crusade.
Chris had grown into somewhat of a small household name since the Crusade, but it was
two years ago and his popularity had died down somewhat. Still, the reporters knew and
remembered him well enough.
"It was decided," Norwood continued, "that a sortie by the Alpha Team and a
second attempt to re-take the building was our best option at the time. Captain Redfield
is not available at this time for comment due to injuries sustained in the operation.
Lieutenant Leon Kennedy was a member of this sortie and he will speak now on behalf of
the S.T.A.R.S."
Norwood stepped aside and allowed Leon, who was waiting patiently behind
Norwood, to speak. Leon was still in full operational uniform, combat vest and all. His
M4 was still slung across his back. The darkness around his eyes made the fact that he
was extremely fatigued clear to the public. With a sigh, Leon cleared his throat and
spoke.
"At approximately 6:37pm local time, the Alpha Team was inserted into the Art
Museum. An attempt to stealthily infiltrate the building was made, but the terrorists had
evidently gained control of the security cameras around the building, making such a
stealthy infiltration impossible. The terrorists caught and incapacitated us, before
bringing us into the same room as the hostages.
"We managed to break our bonds and surprise the terrorists. It was then that a
small firefight ensued, resulting in the wounding of several S.T.A.R.S. members and
civilians. All in all, however, the hostages were left largely unhurt save for small
scratches. Of the fifty-one hostages in the room with us at the time, fifty were saved and
taken to St.Cid Highwind Hospital. One woman had evidently died of a heart attack
pre-ceeding any of the S.T.A.R.S. sorties."
A flurry of questions bombarded Leon the second he stopped talking. Flashbulbs
flashed in his tired eyes and he would want nothing more than to whip out his M4 and
mow down the media, but somehow he resisted. It took every fibre of strength in his
being to do so. A single reporter managed to win the floor and make a statement towards
Leon.
"You mean to say that it took two sorties to successfully save hostages? Your
failure, Lieutenant Kennedy, resulted in the deaths of two hostages. What do you have to
say about this? And Officer Norwood, are you sure sending in pre-pubescent boys to save
fifty important diplomats was the right decision?" a middle-aged, finely dressed and
seemingly stuck-up reporter demanded.
Instantly angered, Leon whipped his sidearm out of his thigh holster. The crowd
was alarmed.
"Four of my friends fought, bled, and died to save fourty-nine lives. My Captain
may make that total five," he began with a strong, angry tone, "let's see you do better,
you fucking piece of horse-shit. Don't you dare call me or any of my team boys."
Leon threw the 9mm USP into the reporter's chest roughly. With that, he turned
and walked away, leaving Officer Norwood to contend with the media.
* * *
Meanwhile, at St.Cid Highwind Hospital, Leon's Captain lay on a hospital bed,
the rest of the team gathered around him. After a two and a half hour operation, the
doctors had managed to remove the last bullet from Chris' body and did their best to
clean his wounds. A blood transfusion quickly followed, and though the doctors had done
everything in their power to ensure his survival, Chris' internal organs were heavily
damaged by the bullets and his fate was still unknown.
The beep-beep-beep of the machine hooked up to Chris let the team know that
their Captain was still alive. Jill, who had showered quickly and changed, was holding
Chris' hand tightly in hers, as if doing so would somehow help him survive. The team
around him regarded their wounded Captain as he fought for his life.
They had learned an hour earlier that Rebecca would survive her wounds, though
whether she would be able to walk normally again was still another question. The bullet
that had hit her just above the waistline had come dangerously close to her spine. Though
the doctors were successful in removing it, they were still unsure as to the extent of the
damage to Beccy's spine. They would be able to tell for sure in a week. For now, Carlos
sat by her side.
The other S.T.A.R.S. members who weren't involved with the Umbrella Crusade
stayed in the hallway outside. Barry had told them it was okay to go home, and that they
would take care of things from here, but they refused. Barry was impressed by their
loyalty, and thanked them for it.
"He'll be fine, girls," Barry said, speaking in particular to Jill and Claire, "he
won't give up. He hasn't in the past and he won't now."
"He better live," Claire said through sobs and sniffs, "because if he doesn't I'm
gonna kick his fucking fat ass from here to Austrailia. You hear me Chris?" she said, a
sad smile appearing on her tear-stained face. She stroked his forehead lovingly, brushing
his hair back. "Don't die. That's an order, Chris."
"Me too, you piece of shit," Jill said softly, "die and I'll kick your ass too."
Tears were going down their cheeks, but the two women managed weak smiles,
managing to keep hope fresh in their minds. Hope was all they had.
* * *
Two more hours passed. It was now five in the morning, almost twelve hours
since the start of the Alpha mission. Everyone but Jill had left Chris' room; Claire was
asleep on a couch just outside the door, while everyone else had found places to sleep in
chairs and spare beds elsewhere in the hospital.
Jill clutched Chris hand and never let go. For hours, she tried her best to stay
awake, staring at Chris' face through the oxygen mask he was wearing, stroking his hair
back or whatever. She whispered things to him, talked to him, even though she knew he
didn't hear her. She talked about the old times, back in Raccoon City. Although it was
only really three or four years ago, it seemed decades old in Jill's mind. She talked about
old cases they worked on together, and the good times, like when Joseph planted a stink
bomb in Brad's locker, or when Chris won that marksmanship trophy, or when Edward
finally got a date with that pretty receptionist at the front desk and the whole team
watched him ask her out.
Once, she even sung a verse of "Killing Me Softly" to Chris, when she
remembered a time when for her birthday, Chris had shown up with Joseph, Edward, and
Kenneth at her front door and together they sung the song to her. Jill wondered if hospital
staff that passed her door heard her talking to Chris and wondered if she was going crazy,
but she didn't care. All that mattered was that she was with Chris. What anyone else
thought was of no consequence to her.
It surprised her that she was this upbeat. A couple of hours ago she was sad
because she didn't know what to do. She felt overwhelmed by the emotions. But now she
felt better. She found herself smiling or laughing a couple of times as the hours passed. It
was almost as if she was -sure- he would live.
For one hour, she found herself doing nothing but watching him breathe, in and
out, in and out. She watched and marveled at it all, thought about the air going in and out
of his lungs and how precious it was both to him and to her.
"Listening to you breathing is enough, Chris Redfield," she found herself saying.
Eventually though, not even the mighty Jill Valentine could last twenty-four hours
without sleep and she found herself dozing off. When she finally decided to go to sleep
for sure, she gave Chris one last kiss on the forehead goodnight. Then she pulled her
chair closer to his bed and laid her head down on the bed next to his hand. Then she
closed her eyes, and went to drifted off into a welcome sleep.
Jill wasn't usually a religious person, but she found herself making the sign of the
cross and saying a small prayer she remembered from when she was a kid and her mother
brought her along to Church. It was the least she could do, really.
Before the welcome embrace of sleep came and carried her off, she managed to
say one last thing to Chris.
"I love you. Die on me while I sleep and I'll kick your ass, bastard."
Jill didn't know if it was her dreams or actually Chris himself, but she swore she
felt Chris run his hand through her hair before caressing her cheek gently and squeezing
her hand reassuringly. It brought a smile to her, and she fell asleep with that smile still on
her lips.
Author's Note:
Booyah. There it is. Yes, I know it's been a VERY long time since the last
update, but hey, things get in the way and you guys should be used to my overall laziness
by now. I got this chapter done in record time; two days, to be exact, and it's really all
due to the emails and reviews you guys leave here on ff.net. It really means a lot and
those reviews are what've kept me writing. Thank you for that.
But yeah, now that I'm back into the writing mood expect another chapter soon.
Of course, 'soon' could be anytime from now until the apocalypse, but oh well. I hope
you guys liked the chapter, cuz I really feel it's one of the better chapters of the story.
Hopefully you guys think so as well. I think the lyrics I chose really fit in with the song,
too. Lifehouse rocks.
Disclaimer: Resident Evil and all the stuff associated with it are property of
Capcom, so don't sue me. I'm poor. All I have of value is my PS2 and my guitar. Really.
Peace, and a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to one and all.
~hustler one