One Chance

by John Damen

A soldier and a civilain's journy to safety through Raccoon City.

2. The Survivors

Chapter 2
"The Survivors"

The only word to describe sleep at that time was bliss. Sleep was bliss. He knew he was going to have a hangover that would knock over a horse when he woke up, but right now, he was in the throws of delightful slumber. The average male wouldn't have a big problem with the amount of Everclear he had ingested, but because of his currently low body weight, and the fact that his drinking binges were few and far between, it wouldn't take much to put him down.

No dreams came to the soldier, he only looked into the blackness of his eyelids for what seemed to be just a few seconds before the man noticed the throbbing in his head. It was not strong yet, barely enough for him to notice as the images of a time long past swam into focus before his tired eyes.

Sleep good, He thought, No wake up yet.

The throbbing grew in his head. He remembered the nights before Thanksgiving when his mother would be preparing the food for the next morning. He remembered the next morning when he would wake up to the sounds of banging pots and bowls, the smell of the turkey being put in the oven early in the morning because it took so long to cook.

The throbbing was to strong to ignore now, so he just tried to live with it as he dreamt of helping his mother with the chores of that long ago day. He loved helping his mother spread her special cranberry-honey glaze over the turkey before putting it in the oven.

The pain in his head had grown from a throb, to a dull headache. He swore he could almost smell the cooking turkey and the canned cranberries. Those wonderfully sweet berries that had been mashed into a thick jelly until they stayed in the shape of the can.

Now the ache was enough to make him squint in his sleep. That was how you could tell how good the berries were. If they didn't hold their shape, then you should throw them out. What were those voices? He didn't recognize any of them. And the wonderful smell of turkey was fading from his nose, slowly being replaced with something far more familiar and a lot less pleasant.

Well fuck me, he thought, I guess I'm going to have to wake up. Fuck.

The man cracked his eyelids open slightly, forever dashing the images and smells of his long since passed childhood. Faces and objects swam in and out of focus and he tried desperately to regain consciousness.

Now he could place the smell that filled his nose. It was the smell of his M.R.E.s heating up.

"Hey…" the young man tried to form the words but found the feat for now was beyond him.

"Hey," he said with more conviction this time, and it caught the attention of the man next to him.

The next thing he felt was a pair of strong fingers pulling his eyelids open followed by a bright light.

"What the fuck?!" he shouted and jerked away from the fingers and that accursed beam.

"How many fingers am I holding up?" the stranger asked, holding his fingers in front of the man's face.

"Four," the man stated.

"Two, actually. But after a skillet to the noggin and a bottle of Everclear, that's only to be expected."
The man only groaned, rubbing his throbbing head and struggled into a sitting position on the bed, leaning against the wall behind him.

"Can you tell me your name?"

The soldier groaned and glowered at the man before him, "Hardin, Staff Sergeant, Umbrella Biohazard Countermeasures Service."

"Okay, Staff Sergeant Hardin, are you hungry?"

"A little."

"Can you walk, or would you rather try and get some more sleep?"

Sgt. Hardin got shakily to his feet, using the stranger's shoulder for support when a wave of dizziness hit him.

"Come into the front room. We'll get you fixed up as best we can," the man told him.

Hardin just nodded his head and followed the man as he walked into the hall.

"Do you have a name?" Hardin asked the man as they walked slowly down the hall.

"Jackson, Doctor, Umbrella Biological Research, Arclay Laboratory. Retired."

"You yanking my crank?" Hardin asked in confusion.

"Why would I?" Jackson asked back.

"You're really a scientist out of the Arclay labs?"

"Formerly."

"What happened, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Matter of fact, I do mind. Please don't ask me that, I'd rather leave that subject alone."

Hardin looked away from his feet to see that they had entered the front room. It was fairly large by apartment standards, but it was now crowded with people, mostly women. Indeed, Jackson seemed to be the only male in the room aside from the Sergeant.

Jackson introduced the others in the room; "That there is Scarlet Faith," he pointed to a young woman who's long blond hair fell gracefully down to the small of her back and seemed to enhance her womanly figure. Her eyes were only a shade lighter than Kyle's own emerald green pools.

The doctor then moved to the next girl; "Shakahnna Warren, Shak for short," he pointed to a short young woman with flaming red hair and tight black pants.

He moved on to the next; "Sarah Delarke," Despite wearing regular jeans and a T-shirt, the feminine curves below the fabric were still obvious, even to those who had no intention of looking. Her eyes were deep hazel and when they focused and combined with the ivory teeth and pink lips, the effect was positively engaging. From there his eyes trailed upwards to Sarah's hair which seemed to have the texture of silk, it was the color of chocolate and sat just below her shoulders.

"Doctor Violet Snowe," Jackson leveled his finger on a tall nerdy looking girl with large plastic glasses that rested on a nose that had obviously been broken many times before. Her attire seemed to be limited to an ash gray sweat-suit. She had curly auburn hair and was sitting on the couch, looking sullen.

Most normal name so far, Hardin thought to himself while holding his throbbing head.

"And last but not least," Jackson said, dramatically, "Natalie Black." The last female who graced his vision, seemed to be some what nervous, her eyes flirting to meet his and then darting away with even more speed. A slight glow of red highlighting her high cheekbones which were testament to her slender physique. The point was further hit home by the girls legs which were covered only by a pair of short brown shorts, which ended midway down her thigh, and allowed him to see their shape. The salmon colored shirt was quite baggy and the younger female seemed to be hiding underneath it, her crop of short golden hair ducked down with an air of apprehension.

"Well, have a seat," Jackson told him, then sat down on the old couch before a line from an old TV Show popped into his head, "Its cruddy, but its home."

Hardin caught the brief flash of annoyance that Violet shot at Jackson when he sat down next to her. He decided it would be best if he kept his distance until he knew more about what was going on between those two, and so, he sat down next to Scarlet Faith.

She gave him a polite smile, but little more than that. It was then that he smelled the familiar smell of the heating element in the M.R.E.s that he carried. It didn't take long for him to see them sitting on the coffee table in front of him, steam rising from the box tops as they heated up.

"You stole my food?" Hardin asked the other occupants in the room, although at this moment in time it was not the most important thing so the U.B.C.S. officer was almost willing to let it slide. Especially if someone could provide him some kind of painkillers.

"We were hungry, we haven't eaten since this started," Jackson told him guiltily.
Hardin put his hands to his temples and rubbed them firmly, trying to make the throbbing go away; "Whatever."

Jackson got up and went into the kitchen. While he was gone, Violet arose and went over to where Hardin was sitting, narrowing her eyes which were neither fully green nor blue.

"Can I help you with something?" the Sergeant asked, slightly uncomfortable with her scrutiny.

"Just shut up for a second, Sergeant," she told him curtly, and ran her fingers through the hair on the back of his head.

The soldier was looking even more uncomfortable by the second.

"Sergeant Hardin…do you have a first name, or is it 'Sergeant'?"

"Kyle. Kyle Salem Hardin, if you must know," he said.

"Truth be told, I wouldn't be surprised if your name was John Wesley Hardin," Jackson told him, upon returning to the front room, "But that would have been a tad cliché," he grinned and threw an icepack into the soldier's lap.

"Why?" Hardin asked the man.

Jackson just looked at him as though he spied something disgusting; "You don't know who John Wesley Hardin was?"

The Sergeant just shook his head.

"Johnny Hardin?" Jackson questioned, "Wild West? The 40 something killer?"

Again, the young man shook his head, looking clueless.

"Jesus Christ, learn your history!" The doctor said, exasperation clear in his voice and threw his arms in the air before turning his back on Sergeant Hardin.

"Do you have a first name, Dr. Jackson?" Kyle questioned, applying the icepack to the back of his head even as Violet pulled his eyelids roughly open and shined a penlight into each of his eyes.

"By the wisdom of my mother and father," he started dramatically, almost comically, and rounded on the soldier, "I was graced with the name of Brian."

"Well, Kyle Hardin," Violet said, after having examined the Sergeant's head, "You don't seem to be hurt. How often do you get hit with a pan?"

"It was a skillet, Violet," Brian corrected with a smile that gave the impression of slight smugness, "A cast-iron skillet. I remember seeing it when I came down to help."

"You, sir, are a cretin," Violet muttered under her breath, getting up and going back to the couch.

The reason for the smug smile was soon revealed in Brian's next rhetorical question, "Can I help it if your screams of slight panic are shrill enough to break glass?"

Violet wheeled around and almost caught Brain across the face with a slap, had he not been prepared for it. He jerked his head away at the last moment, and Violet's fingers were only able to graze the tip of the man's nose.

Brian turned his head slightly and shot Kyle a wink which told the soldier that, even though the good Doctor could pass for being in his early 30's; but must have been in his 50's, 40's at least, he had never quite fully matured from his late teens.

Hardin watched as Violet walked back to the couch, almost tripping on the coffee table, and sat down in a huff, dust blowing out from the cushion as it compressed under her weight.

"You have power and running water?" Hardin asked, seemingly out of the blue.

"Yeah, this is one of the few apartments that still has it. That's how we got water for the ice, and for the heating element in your M.R.E.s. Why?" Brian asked.

"I'd like to take a shower, if that's alright with you," Kyle removed the icepack and saw crimson red on the rubber of the pack. Violet might look rather frail, but she could swing a pan hard enough to draw blood.

"That's fine with us," Brian told him as he lead the soldier to the bathroom, "Just remember, if you get woozy, sit down, stay awake, and call for one of us. We'll hear you if we're not too busy bickering," he said this last bit in jest.

"Thank you," Kyle said quietly, accepting the offered towel and went into the bathroom.

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