CHAPTER 4
New Alliances, New Teams
The silenced shot never was expectted.
The 9mm lead tore through Oliver's skin roughly. He remembered that feeling. Hated it. But it was in the
wrong goddamn place. ".......shit," Oliver groaningly said before passing out.
"Yo, nigga, you gotta be fuckin' kiddin' me!"
"I told you I could nail him. I RULE as V.I.P., man!"
"Good thing you did. That crack-a was gonna kill hisself."
"He looks like a vet, B."
"Look, let's take him back to the base. Riffmasta might find him useful!"
"Roger that, B."
"You play too much Counter-Strike, John."
"Affirmative"
*****
"No one survived?"
"Not one."
Kenji was horrified to hear of the news about the squad. He was in command of the U.B.C.S. people in
the San Francisco area. On the side, he was also UMB's T.I.U. (Tactical Infiltration Unit) commander,
which had only about 20 or so members under it, including the ever-popular Leroy Wooley and Peter Benson.
He'd heard about that dreadful mishap in sending MA-121s to get rid of Jackson. He'd known Jackson,
target-practiced with him, but the news more of what had happened when Jackson became useless was
more of a shock. Things had gone way too far and gotten way too oversized.
The order had been sent and he sent his best men, only to find they were slaughtered in less than 5 minutes.
The 2 other `copters never made the ground without crashing. The cloaked ones jumpped from high-up buildings
onto the vehicles and took'em down in a hellish blaze. The bodycount of the monsters was medium at most,
and they didn't know how many were out there. The fucking idiot who sent out the order was probably some
traitor from HCF, and would be found and destroyed.
Eito, his 23 year old brother (five years younger than him), stood before him with that look of sympathy about it.
Alot of those men had fought alongside the both of them in many merc battles and small wars. The two had been
sufficently trained and could take care of probably a good portion of this as well. But it seemed that other methods
would have to do if they were to go in. The helicopters' noise attractted them and made them major targets.
As well as the lights....
"Get Woods, Gottwald, Poschl, Chalk, Martin, and Blake suited up."
"Anyone else?"
"No, thank you."
"Any specific weaponry?"
"I'll have my Thirty-Three and Browning HP."
"Anything else?"
"Night-vision. For everyone. That's a complete order."
"Yes, sir!"
*****
The quiet, dream-like prescence continued beating through Oliver's head. That feeling of immortality mixed
with the sense of worry and fear that death was just about to slice your head off. Oliver almost wondered if
he'd been infectted. Infectted with some kind of virus. He felt sick but healthy at the same time. A twisted
hypocricy of pain and relief. The frustration of seperation was unfathomable. Felt like the war. It was exhilerating
to get kills. But it was painful to have to take lives. A double-edged sword in all fucking respects.
As these restless thoughts filled his restless mind, he slowly began waking up from the slumber he'd softly been
awakened from mildly a few minutes ago. His mind had regained composure, and he slowly began getting up,
feeling a cold, hard cement floor on his front. As he began rising, he noticed the bluish tint on the room coming
from the light above him. Flourescent or neon, he couldn't tell his eyes were so blurred. He looked around to find
himself in a humongously crampped bathroom in a very grungy part of town. No wonder I feel sick..
The bullet wound still stung hard. It wasn't bleeding and seemed patched up after some minor inspection.
Bullet wasn't lodged in there or anything. Totally clean. Nice fellow, whoever got him.
Stumbling slightly towards a light switch, Oliver flicked it, turning on some flourescents around the room, blinding him.
Being unready for it, he turned off the lights and saw what appeared to be a door on the west side of the room.
He walked towards it, and was about to open it when suddenly it swung open with a jolt, pushing Oliver back,
almost making him fall down.
Beyond the door was the glow of a stronger light-source behind the form that stood at the door. He had a
strangely ghost-like feel to him, though entirely shrouded in darkness. There was a shine in the blue flourescent.
Sunglasses. Dark black sunglasses. And what seemed like black skin. Another one of the negro gangsters, probably.
The build was strong, but medium at best overall. mostly in shoulders and upper arms.
This guy could probably bench alot for his size.
While all this seemed intimidating, Oliver was more worried about what was going to happen to the
poor bastard once one of those fucking things got him and ripped HIS spine out....bet the guy wouldn't be
snickering like he was at that moment.
"Well, well, coincedently, you're going out as I'm coming in," the black man chuckled, his face kind yet with a
menacing little secret obviously hiding behind him, "whazzup, man?"
Oliver frowned. "Who are you and where am I?"
"To the point, huh? My name's Alvin. Alvin Warchoski. Don't ask, it's a weird story."
"And where?"
"About 5 miles south of where you nearly blew your fuckin' brains out. Underground as well, about 30 feet under."
"So what is this?"
"It was an old....tunnel system, I dunno," Alvin said, shrugging, entering the bathroom to become a bit more
comfortable. "It connects the main clubs together. Jefferson & Thomason's Bar, The Cleansing Room, and Pump Palace."
"Whatever. Who the fuck shot me?"
"Heh, and people say I'm blunt. Some nigga from down south. Jimmy, I think. He and Louis found ya at the
Pump Palace." "Why did he shoot me?"
"You trying to blow your brains out, man, what the fuck do you think he was gonna do?"
"Look, saying stop is how we do it where I fucking come from. You don't shoot the goddamned fuck who's
trying to do it!" Oliver was starting to get irritated by this little shit.
Damn, he didn't know where he was much. Just the room. If he knew more about the place he'd have just
taken him out right there. But suddenly, he realized he felt a tad more lighter. "Where are my guns?"
"Gun-locker, end of the hall. Look, man, show some fucking consideration that Jim saved your goddamn life.
He hates white boys." "Oh well, there, got my answer there." "Don't try..." Alvin trailed as Oliver just slyly
walked out of the room, out into the hallway.
The hallway was grease-infestted, and looked absolutely heinous. The walls glowing a brighter blue than
the bathroom, showing the teal-colored walls in a bit more of a bluish tint. There was decay and rotting.
It was like an underground club's hallways in one of those grungy areas of town. The area your parents
never wanted you to see.
The floors were littered with cardboard boxes packed with ammunition. Tons of it. Stocked-up, it seemed.
Oliver had a feeling he knew what the purpose of all that was. "Have you seen those...things?"
He was surprised he hadn't mentioned it before. Alvin smirked. "You damn right. Those fuckers are worst than
those trigger-happy cops." Oliver walked towards the final door at the end of the hall.
The door seemed to get even more crumbled as Oliver looked at it. He saw the doorknob, which not only looked
germ-infestted, but had a small bit of a white, yet-clear substance on it. Liquid. "Is that?" "Uhm...yea," Alvin said hesitantly.
"Yech, fucking scum," Oliver muttered and kicked the door open.
It swung open with a sharp fwump and slamming sound against the wall nearby.
The bright light shined in from it, and it appeared to be the illumination that had shined on Alvin's back earlier.
A pair of big powerful flourescents glowed up on the ceiling, shinning all over the gun-packed room.
Racks and racks, wood and steel, covered in illegal guns. Sub machine guns, assault rifles, rocket launchers, everything
that you wanted to have but couldn't.
Oliver almost seemed to drool at this site. Those things are dead meat next time....but, of course, he probably would
be restrictted from all these cool goodies. Alvin smirked happily at the collection.
"You can use what you want, if you're good enough to help us and do so."
"Really?"
"Yes. How many have you killed?"
Oliver shrugged, walking around the empty storage room, Alvin standing by the open door. "I dunno, really," Oliver replied,
"about 16. But I've seen tons of them..."
"16? Man, you're good. On your own?"
"Yeah. I still keep in practice with some paintball on occasion...my health is pretty much fine."
"Pretty much?" Oliver pulled out some cigarttes. "Oh."
The older man pulled a cancer stick out and put it in his mouth. "Got a light?"
"Sure," Alvin replied, pulling out his see-through little thing he picked up when he was younger, lighting Oliver's cig.
"So, do you want to help?"
"You saying I'm good enough?"
"We can only take out about 3 per person."
"That is fucking weak, man."
"These people aren't trained like you are. Marine Corps?"
"Army. It may help you and your people some."
"Watch it."
"Whatever. Hey, you seen those soldiers?"
"What?"
"The soldiers. I saw them come in a Huey and get slaughtered, but there be more."
"Oh, THOSE guys. We caught one of their wounded. He's gonna be okay, but, he's so terrified he can't speak."
"Where is he?"
"Look, man, maybe you oughta fucking answer some questions now. I'm sick of this."
"All right then," Oliver gruffly said, sitting down in a chair.
Alvin sat down in his own chair, looking ahead at Oliver. "Who are you?"
"Oliver Johnson."
"What are you doing here?"
"My friend, Jackson, called me down to tell me something. He told me it, and got killed by one of those things coming
from the air."
"So they just rained?"
"Just one did."
"Who have you spoken to here?"
"Just you, some poor fuck who got acid sprayed on his face, and Jackson."
"Who are the soldiers?"
"I don't know."
"Do you know what those things are?"
"Monsters from a company named Umbrella Inc."
"What?"
"Jackson worked for'em told me about some sorta experiments that were being done and so they sent those things to kill him and to kill me."
"So they're after you?"
"Yeah, and if you feed me to'em, I'll haunt you in your fucking dreams."
"Good enough. But I'd like you out of here."
"Fair enough."
"Do you know anyone around here?"
"No. I'm from L.A."
"Quite a jaunt out here."
"Yep. Doesn't matter. Look, I need to get the fuck outta here and all I want is your help. That's it. That's what I want. Now can we just get past this bull-shit, combine forces, and maybe get outta here alive?"
After seeing that this guy was pretty honest, Alvin couldn't help but say, "sure, why not?"
"All right, then. What do I do?"
"Well, I'll send you `n' my best out to search around the area nearby. As far as only a block from here."
"There's a building above us?"
"Yeah, strip joint called Valerie's Secret Spot," Alvin chuckled, not being able to contain it by the ludicriousy of
saying the name of a titty-bar in such a situation.
"Whatever. Who's going?"
"Whoever you want, really."
"Hmm...that guy who shot me trustworthy?"
"Not really."
"How about the soldier?"
"He's sleeping right now. Melanie may have him, though, so you might not wanna disturb the guy."
"....oooh. Right."
Yech.
"But, he might be available, sure. You okay with that?"
"I want a fellow soldier. Feels more comfortable."
"I understand. Any weapons you need?"
"Pass me an AK-47 and gimme back my Beretta and Benelli and I should be fine."
"Anything else?"
"You got a .45 caliber Sig Sauer P220?"
"...maybe, possibly. I'm not sure."
"Just gimme those four, some good amounts of ammo, and I'll be fine."
"Anyone else besides the soldier?"
"You?"
"....ah, what the hell? Sure."
"Good. When do we move out....sir?"
New Alliances, New Teams
The silenced shot never was expectted.
The 9mm lead tore through Oliver's skin roughly. He remembered that feeling. Hated it. But it was in the
wrong goddamn place. ".......shit," Oliver groaningly said before passing out.
"Yo, nigga, you gotta be fuckin' kiddin' me!"
"I told you I could nail him. I RULE as V.I.P., man!"
"Good thing you did. That crack-a was gonna kill hisself."
"He looks like a vet, B."
"Look, let's take him back to the base. Riffmasta might find him useful!"
"Roger that, B."
"You play too much Counter-Strike, John."
"Affirmative"
*****
"No one survived?"
"Not one."
Kenji was horrified to hear of the news about the squad. He was in command of the U.B.C.S. people in
the San Francisco area. On the side, he was also UMB's T.I.U. (Tactical Infiltration Unit) commander,
which had only about 20 or so members under it, including the ever-popular Leroy Wooley and Peter Benson.
He'd heard about that dreadful mishap in sending MA-121s to get rid of Jackson. He'd known Jackson,
target-practiced with him, but the news more of what had happened when Jackson became useless was
more of a shock. Things had gone way too far and gotten way too oversized.
The order had been sent and he sent his best men, only to find they were slaughtered in less than 5 minutes.
The 2 other `copters never made the ground without crashing. The cloaked ones jumpped from high-up buildings
onto the vehicles and took'em down in a hellish blaze. The bodycount of the monsters was medium at most,
and they didn't know how many were out there. The fucking idiot who sent out the order was probably some
traitor from HCF, and would be found and destroyed.
Eito, his 23 year old brother (five years younger than him), stood before him with that look of sympathy about it.
Alot of those men had fought alongside the both of them in many merc battles and small wars. The two had been
sufficently trained and could take care of probably a good portion of this as well. But it seemed that other methods
would have to do if they were to go in. The helicopters' noise attractted them and made them major targets.
As well as the lights....
"Get Woods, Gottwald, Poschl, Chalk, Martin, and Blake suited up."
"Anyone else?"
"No, thank you."
"Any specific weaponry?"
"I'll have my Thirty-Three and Browning HP."
"Anything else?"
"Night-vision. For everyone. That's a complete order."
"Yes, sir!"
*****
The quiet, dream-like prescence continued beating through Oliver's head. That feeling of immortality mixed
with the sense of worry and fear that death was just about to slice your head off. Oliver almost wondered if
he'd been infectted. Infectted with some kind of virus. He felt sick but healthy at the same time. A twisted
hypocricy of pain and relief. The frustration of seperation was unfathomable. Felt like the war. It was exhilerating
to get kills. But it was painful to have to take lives. A double-edged sword in all fucking respects.
As these restless thoughts filled his restless mind, he slowly began waking up from the slumber he'd softly been
awakened from mildly a few minutes ago. His mind had regained composure, and he slowly began getting up,
feeling a cold, hard cement floor on his front. As he began rising, he noticed the bluish tint on the room coming
from the light above him. Flourescent or neon, he couldn't tell his eyes were so blurred. He looked around to find
himself in a humongously crampped bathroom in a very grungy part of town. No wonder I feel sick..
The bullet wound still stung hard. It wasn't bleeding and seemed patched up after some minor inspection.
Bullet wasn't lodged in there or anything. Totally clean. Nice fellow, whoever got him.
Stumbling slightly towards a light switch, Oliver flicked it, turning on some flourescents around the room, blinding him.
Being unready for it, he turned off the lights and saw what appeared to be a door on the west side of the room.
He walked towards it, and was about to open it when suddenly it swung open with a jolt, pushing Oliver back,
almost making him fall down.
Beyond the door was the glow of a stronger light-source behind the form that stood at the door. He had a
strangely ghost-like feel to him, though entirely shrouded in darkness. There was a shine in the blue flourescent.
Sunglasses. Dark black sunglasses. And what seemed like black skin. Another one of the negro gangsters, probably.
The build was strong, but medium at best overall. mostly in shoulders and upper arms.
This guy could probably bench alot for his size.
While all this seemed intimidating, Oliver was more worried about what was going to happen to the
poor bastard once one of those fucking things got him and ripped HIS spine out....bet the guy wouldn't be
snickering like he was at that moment.
"Well, well, coincedently, you're going out as I'm coming in," the black man chuckled, his face kind yet with a
menacing little secret obviously hiding behind him, "whazzup, man?"
Oliver frowned. "Who are you and where am I?"
"To the point, huh? My name's Alvin. Alvin Warchoski. Don't ask, it's a weird story."
"And where?"
"About 5 miles south of where you nearly blew your fuckin' brains out. Underground as well, about 30 feet under."
"So what is this?"
"It was an old....tunnel system, I dunno," Alvin said, shrugging, entering the bathroom to become a bit more
comfortable. "It connects the main clubs together. Jefferson & Thomason's Bar, The Cleansing Room, and Pump Palace."
"Whatever. Who the fuck shot me?"
"Heh, and people say I'm blunt. Some nigga from down south. Jimmy, I think. He and Louis found ya at the
Pump Palace." "Why did he shoot me?"
"You trying to blow your brains out, man, what the fuck do you think he was gonna do?"
"Look, saying stop is how we do it where I fucking come from. You don't shoot the goddamned fuck who's
trying to do it!" Oliver was starting to get irritated by this little shit.
Damn, he didn't know where he was much. Just the room. If he knew more about the place he'd have just
taken him out right there. But suddenly, he realized he felt a tad more lighter. "Where are my guns?"
"Gun-locker, end of the hall. Look, man, show some fucking consideration that Jim saved your goddamn life.
He hates white boys." "Oh well, there, got my answer there." "Don't try..." Alvin trailed as Oliver just slyly
walked out of the room, out into the hallway.
The hallway was grease-infestted, and looked absolutely heinous. The walls glowing a brighter blue than
the bathroom, showing the teal-colored walls in a bit more of a bluish tint. There was decay and rotting.
It was like an underground club's hallways in one of those grungy areas of town. The area your parents
never wanted you to see.
The floors were littered with cardboard boxes packed with ammunition. Tons of it. Stocked-up, it seemed.
Oliver had a feeling he knew what the purpose of all that was. "Have you seen those...things?"
He was surprised he hadn't mentioned it before. Alvin smirked. "You damn right. Those fuckers are worst than
those trigger-happy cops." Oliver walked towards the final door at the end of the hall.
The door seemed to get even more crumbled as Oliver looked at it. He saw the doorknob, which not only looked
germ-infestted, but had a small bit of a white, yet-clear substance on it. Liquid. "Is that?" "Uhm...yea," Alvin said hesitantly.
"Yech, fucking scum," Oliver muttered and kicked the door open.
It swung open with a sharp fwump and slamming sound against the wall nearby.
The bright light shined in from it, and it appeared to be the illumination that had shined on Alvin's back earlier.
A pair of big powerful flourescents glowed up on the ceiling, shinning all over the gun-packed room.
Racks and racks, wood and steel, covered in illegal guns. Sub machine guns, assault rifles, rocket launchers, everything
that you wanted to have but couldn't.
Oliver almost seemed to drool at this site. Those things are dead meat next time....but, of course, he probably would
be restrictted from all these cool goodies. Alvin smirked happily at the collection.
"You can use what you want, if you're good enough to help us and do so."
"Really?"
"Yes. How many have you killed?"
Oliver shrugged, walking around the empty storage room, Alvin standing by the open door. "I dunno, really," Oliver replied,
"about 16. But I've seen tons of them..."
"16? Man, you're good. On your own?"
"Yeah. I still keep in practice with some paintball on occasion...my health is pretty much fine."
"Pretty much?" Oliver pulled out some cigarttes. "Oh."
The older man pulled a cancer stick out and put it in his mouth. "Got a light?"
"Sure," Alvin replied, pulling out his see-through little thing he picked up when he was younger, lighting Oliver's cig.
"So, do you want to help?"
"You saying I'm good enough?"
"We can only take out about 3 per person."
"That is fucking weak, man."
"These people aren't trained like you are. Marine Corps?"
"Army. It may help you and your people some."
"Watch it."
"Whatever. Hey, you seen those soldiers?"
"What?"
"The soldiers. I saw them come in a Huey and get slaughtered, but there be more."
"Oh, THOSE guys. We caught one of their wounded. He's gonna be okay, but, he's so terrified he can't speak."
"Where is he?"
"Look, man, maybe you oughta fucking answer some questions now. I'm sick of this."
"All right then," Oliver gruffly said, sitting down in a chair.
Alvin sat down in his own chair, looking ahead at Oliver. "Who are you?"
"Oliver Johnson."
"What are you doing here?"
"My friend, Jackson, called me down to tell me something. He told me it, and got killed by one of those things coming
from the air."
"So they just rained?"
"Just one did."
"Who have you spoken to here?"
"Just you, some poor fuck who got acid sprayed on his face, and Jackson."
"Who are the soldiers?"
"I don't know."
"Do you know what those things are?"
"Monsters from a company named Umbrella Inc."
"What?"
"Jackson worked for'em told me about some sorta experiments that were being done and so they sent those things to kill him and to kill me."
"So they're after you?"
"Yeah, and if you feed me to'em, I'll haunt you in your fucking dreams."
"Good enough. But I'd like you out of here."
"Fair enough."
"Do you know anyone around here?"
"No. I'm from L.A."
"Quite a jaunt out here."
"Yep. Doesn't matter. Look, I need to get the fuck outta here and all I want is your help. That's it. That's what I want. Now can we just get past this bull-shit, combine forces, and maybe get outta here alive?"
After seeing that this guy was pretty honest, Alvin couldn't help but say, "sure, why not?"
"All right, then. What do I do?"
"Well, I'll send you `n' my best out to search around the area nearby. As far as only a block from here."
"There's a building above us?"
"Yeah, strip joint called Valerie's Secret Spot," Alvin chuckled, not being able to contain it by the ludicriousy of
saying the name of a titty-bar in such a situation.
"Whatever. Who's going?"
"Whoever you want, really."
"Hmm...that guy who shot me trustworthy?"
"Not really."
"How about the soldier?"
"He's sleeping right now. Melanie may have him, though, so you might not wanna disturb the guy."
"....oooh. Right."
Yech.
"But, he might be available, sure. You okay with that?"
"I want a fellow soldier. Feels more comfortable."
"I understand. Any weapons you need?"
"Pass me an AK-47 and gimme back my Beretta and Benelli and I should be fine."
"Anything else?"
"You got a .45 caliber Sig Sauer P220?"
"...maybe, possibly. I'm not sure."
"Just gimme those four, some good amounts of ammo, and I'll be fine."
"Anyone else besides the soldier?"
"You?"
"....ah, what the hell? Sure."
"Good. When do we move out....sir?"