Edward Dewey kept his gun trained on the crumpled corpse. It wasn't moving, no. It appeared to be dead. But it had seemed dead before, as well, right before getting up and attacking him and Forest, so he knew it couldn't be trusted. But he wasn't here to menace corpses.
He was at the door. There were two doors, actually, but in his previous stay in the room he had tried both. The first one, closer to the double doors that led to the second floor balcony, was locked from the opposite side - no way to unlock that, not from his end. The second - the one he was at now - was locked as well, but it at least had a keyhole...
Again, Edward shone his light on the lock. Again, the engraving of a sword shone back at him.
The door unlocked with his new key, provided by the good Enrico. It swung open. A stench of corrosion and death hit Edward's nostrils, causing him to flinch. He wasn't strongly familiar with the smell...it still caused him to gag. He put the sleeve of his shirt over his mouth and stepped through.
It was a very short pass, walls a dusty white. There was a door opposite, but Edward ignored it. If his sense of direction was correct, and he was sure it was, it led to the rain-soaked outdoors balcony he had been on before. What he was more interested in was the way the walls opened to the right. He moved cautiously for the opening, running his hands along the wallpaper. It opened into a poorly maintained room, a stairway leading downwards. Across, past the stairs, was another hall; with a couple of doors and a zombie to match.
Edward didn't have ammo to waste. He had used too much on the dogs outside; he was left with a full mag in his Beretta and four rounds to spare. He made for the stairs, but there was railing all around that only opened on the other side - no matter. He grabbed it and vaulted over, landing on a section of floor before the stairs. The zombie had hardly moved, only shambling dumbly towards him. Edward grinned. "So long, dumbass," he muttered, as he turned and dropped down the stairs -
right into the grip of another zombie. It was shambling upwards, arms reaching for him, dangerously close. Edward tried to back up, but his feet forgot he was on stairs and bumped against the steps in a futile fashion. The zombie reared back its head, then vomited on Edward; steaming green bile flowing out of its mouth and splattering over the pilot. It splashed about his boots, causing them to slip - Edward smacked into the zombie, and they both tumbled down the stairs.
The world was a whirling kaleidoscope of light and dark, white walls and brown wood, as he felt himself smack both with every bit of his body. He bounced off the tumbling corpse more than once. He felt himself roll across his right arm, and the gun in his hand bucked as it discharged. He could fell the bullet whistle by his left ear, nicking it just barely. The kickback threw the pistol out of his numb fingers. The bottom of the trip was as sudden as the start - he bounced off a wall, landed on his side, and felt hotness. The vomit was beginning to burn.
Something metal slid along the wooden floor. Edward saw it was his Beretta, on its side and slowing to a stop six feet away. He moved forward six inches - then stopped as cold, groping hands grabbed him by the belt and yanked him backwards. The undead man heaved itself upward and landed heavily on his back, pressing his chest into the floor. Edward felt the vomit-splashed skin slam down hard and howled aloud. He felt a peeling, dry hand grab him by the forehead and pull, forcing his head back. He teeth found his shoulder and bit down.
Edward could still see his gun, at least three feet beyond an outstretched arm. Edward rolled, feeling the zombie go under him and again on top, until he felt his palm brush the cool metal. It seemed to jump into his hand of its own accord. The zombie pawed at him like an insistent lover, pulling at his hair and Kevlar vest. Blood flowed from his shoulder, teeth working into flesh and muscle. Edward bucked, trying to throw the zombie off him, and slammed an elbow into its forehead. The hit was sufficient to knock its teeth out of him, for a second. Desperately, Edward shoved the gun into its mouth. He couldn't see it, face pressed into the floor, but he heard teeth clink on metal. He pulled the trigger, but the bullet passed through cheek; the angle was wrong. Teeth bit at his hand, digging into the back and nearly making him drop the gun, and he yanked it out of its mouth. Instead, he shoved the barrel of the Beretta into the zombie side and fired.
The right of its pelvis broke under the point-blank shot. It shook, muscles all over the body quivering from the trauma. Edward was able to sling it off him, getting to his knees and throwing frantic looks around. There was a hallway, the stairs - a door! There was a corpse on the ground in front of it, lying still, but it was a risk he'd have to take. He stumbled over the body, swung the wooden door open and fell into the room.
The change was shocking. Carpet was on the floor, a desk light lit the room warmly, and rows of small bottles lined the wall. There was a small bed, a short desk and a typewriter atop it. Suddenly a screaming, stabbing pain hit Edward on hit chest.
"Je-sus-CHRIST!" He shouted, clawing at his Kevlar. He pulled it and his shirt off him, thrashing in pain. They slapped to the floor and Edward was staring downward, at his stomach, his pecs, and the layer of green slime over both. It felt like it should've been smoking. Edward grabbed blindly at the shelves of small bottles, finding labels that meant nothing to him. Acetaminophen, Chlor Tripolon...where the hell was the goddamn acid repellent! Edward grabbed at the bed sheets, tried to rub the vomit off his chest and found it was to no avail. His vision going wavy, he collapsed to the floor and clawed uselessly at the flaming skin.
And then, thumping. This room apparently not soundproofed, Edward could hear the quick thumps of something faster - and maybe more dangerous - than a zombie coming down the stairs. Edward raised his gun, still on the floor, as the unknown entity hit the floor and came straight for the door, when it opened and in dashed a big black guy with a knife -
Kenneth yanked the door closed after him, bloody dagger a testament to his trip. He looked down at the pilot, eyes wide. "Zombies out there," he shouted unnecessarily. Edward ran out of strength for his arm and the gun clattered to the floor. Then the chemical expert looked down at him directly. "What happened to you?"
Edward turned over, letting him see his chest. "God - damn - zombie puked on me, and it - it - dammit to hell it burns! Get the goddamn antidote, hurry, please!"
Kenneth turned to the medications lining the wall and went through them madly, checking labels for split seconds before knocking them to the floor. It was only a couple of very long seconds before he snatched one off the wall and pulled off the cap, then knelt over Edward, pouring it over his chest. He instantly felt a heavenly coolness.
"Oh, thank you God," Edward breathed, panting for breath. Every muscle went limp, the back of his head smacking into the floor. "What is that stuff, holy water?"
Kenneth checked the label again, a slight smile across his features. "I doubt it. It's actually some heartburn medicine."
Edward blinked. "What?"
"Yeah, thought you'd say that. You said a zombie vomited on you, correct?" Edward nodded, and Kenneth continued. "Alright. Do you know how heartburn works? Otherwise known as acid reflux. It's when the acid in your stomach manages to get up out, through the cardiac sphincter - the passage between your stomach and esophagus. The term 'heartburn' is rather incorrect, as it doesn't affect your heart at all, but rather burns close to the cardiac area. In any case, it's caused by stomach acid. Now, if a zombie vomited on you, I think you got a good dose of the stuff. That was what was burning you."
Edward pushed himself up, sneering. "Really now? Pukin' acid? Nice idea Kenny, but you're outside your league here. You're the police corn - coro - corpse guy. I'm a beat cop. I've been puked on by more drunks than I can count, and it's never done that to me."
Kenneth held up one finger. "Yes - but that's vomit of beer and whatever they've been eating. Stomach acid is powerful stuff; it can strip the paint off a car. What you've been hit with, I'm sure, is diluted with food stuffs and liquids. But...you know that corpse in the balcony, above the dining room?"
"Wish I didn't," muttered Edward.
"I've been poking at it...it's gut is totally empty. It - and I'm willing to bet all it's friends - hasn't eaten anything in days at least...but it's still producing acid. And saliva, by the way..." Kenneth looked over at Edward. "It's odd. It's showing symptoms of...well, sufficient stimulus, even thinking, of food can get your mouth watering and all. It's like...these people - if you can call them that, I'm not quite sure anymore - are thinking of food all the time. They're just pumping out acid and spit, basically, like no tomorrow. And intestinal fluids, of course, but that's not going to make a practical difference to us."
Edward frowned, trying to follow the train of logic, but it was a little beyond him. At least. He shook his head - he had managed to catch that these things puke acid, and there was some scientific reason that made it work. He looked about for his vest, noticing it lying in the corner. "You got any of that left for my Kevlar?"
"Oh - maybe, let me check." Kenneth turned to the rows of medicine, then stopped dead. He peered intently at the bottles, brown eyes flitting over the labels.
Edward's face took on an expression of impatience. "So, that a yes or no?"
"What? Oh, right." Kenneth plucked one of the bottles off the wall and passed it to Edward. As the pilot clumsily poured it over his vest, he looked back at the chemical expert grudgingly.
"I'm sorry if I disturbed you," he said, sarcastic.
"No, no, it's alright." Kenneth poked at the bottles, deep in thought, then gave Edward a sheepish grin. "Sorry, just...this is very odd. Look at the stuff we have here. It's all from Umbrella. I mean, it's not surprising, Raccoon runs on Umbrella, but...they've got some holes in their treatments. Look at this stuff! Who stocks a cure for cholera but doesn't bother to get insulin shots? This is odd...almost, suspicious..."
"Uh, yeah, that's great." Edward had finished treating his vest and threw it back on himself, buckling it up. "You think you can make something useful here?"
"Useful...actually, yeah...yeah. I went through some med school of my own, you know, I can make some first aid stuff here. I mean, maybe I'm not as good as..." Kenneth trailed off, words failing him. He looked downwards, eyes focused on something far off.
Edward snapped his fingers. "Hello? You in there, Kenny? Not as good as who? Rebecca? Ruh - Beck - Uh. Dead girl. Remember?"
Kenneth's mouth worked for a few seconds before words began. His voice was flat. "Yes. Not as good as Rebecca. But I think I can fix something up."
Edward nodded. "Good. Do so." He moved to the door, opened it with one hand, and pointed back at Kenneth. "Don't come out until you've got enough to last us. Y'hear?"
"Will do."
"You better." Edward looked grim. He passed through the door. A second later - he supposed some of the walls were soundproofed, but this one wasn't - he heard a trio of gunshots. For another second he just stood there, looking at the ground, thoughts far away. Then he sighed and turned to the shelf.
