Mercenary
Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to Resident Evil, or Capcom for that matter. Except for the games. Some, anyway.
'Cry, "Havoc!" and let slip the dogs of war!'
William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar
Prologue: Insertion
September 29th, 1998
2000 hours
"ETA one minute!" the pilot called over the intercom, his voice almost drowned out by the thundering rotor blades of the Bell JetRanger we were in.
I looked out of the Perspex window, and into a city ravaged by death.
Raccoon City was hued in black and red from where I was, black from death, and red from fresh blood. I couldn't make out any details on the ground, but I knew that the other Umbrella mercs below couldn't be having an easy time. The moon was full and pale, an omen of death.
Umbrella had five companies in its UCS (Umbrella Corporate Security) force: Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta, and Echo. Three days ago, Echo was sent in to sweep the city and rescue whatever civilians they could. Thirty minutes later, Umbrella's Tactical Operations Command (TOC) received SOS calls from the men on the ground, detailing the horrors they'd seen and fought. Delta was inserted into the city soon after. Two days ago, the situation had deteriorated to somewhere near 'beyond salvage', prompting the top brass to order Charlie in. Yesterday, Bravo was sucked into the mire of Raccoon City, just to add more names to the final body count under the pretext of a noble mission. Their last report was that of the rescue helicopter crashing. Now, the powers that be decided to throw their last company into the fuckup that was Operation Mad Jackal, and wanted us to reinforce whoever's still alive, and extract anybody we can from the city.
Before this whole mess started, 120 mercenaries from another force were sent in three days ago. The fact that Echo followed them in some hours later was proof enough that something was wrong.
Like we'd have a snowball's chance in hell of even surviving. At the end of the mission briefing, a mercenary stood up and shouted "Hail Caesar, we who are about to die salute you!" to the full-bird colonel who gave the briefing, echoing our sentiments. The rest of the men followed suit before leaving. That the colonel didn't stop him was proof enough that most, if not all, were going to die.
I am reminded of two lines from Lord Alfred Tennyson's The Charge of the Light Brigade. 'Their's not to reason why/Their's but to do and die.' How appropriate. Our only hope was to work together, and maybe not even that.
I glanced about the tight cabin.
Lieutenant Frank Anderson, the team 'leader', was in front of me. I didn't know anything about him. None of us did. He was assigned to us a day before Umbrella sent in their mercenaries into RC. He was a big man, about six feet five, in his early thirties. His pale skin, white hair, and red eyes marked him as an albino. His hair was about as long as that of a businessman; like all of us. We had different backgrounds, but we all use US Army ranks.
He was armed with an M4A1 carbine fitted with a 1.5x reflex sight. Judging by the way he was holding his carbine, he was left-handed. The M4A1 was developed in 1994 for the United States Special Operations Command as a modification of the M4. It has a flattop receiver and a Picatinny accessory rail on top instead of the standard carrying handle, and fires in full automatic when set to 'AUTO', as opposed to the M4's 3-round burst fire when set to that fire option. It was reliable, accurate, and generally among the best firearms in the world. He also had a pistol in a shoulder holster, but I couldn't make it out.
A massive ball of flame appeared suddenly on the left of the helicopter, quickly forming into a mushroom cloud of scarlet. A high-pressure front shot out from it, briefly knocking the helicopter about, as a roar passed through the helicopter.
"Jesus Christ! What the fuck was that? A nuke?" the man on my left screamed, his bass voice echoing throughout the cargo compartment.
He was Sergeant Howard Thompson, a large (6'4"), muscular African American. He had a beard so thick that he had to shave it twice a day. He had short, curly black hair that matched his black eyes. He was also prone to bouts of swearing when confronted with unusually stressful situations.
A former Marine Corps gunnery sergeant, he excelled in the use of heavy and support weaponry. As such, he was carrying a Mark 46 Mod 0 machinegun. It was a modified M249 developed for the US SOCOM. It had an accessory rail, a different stock, and no magazine feed option to save weight. His machinegun was fitted with a standard-issue 200 round belt that was stored in a box.
"If it were, we'd be dead," the mercenary in front of him said, head down, eyes closed, and left hand loosely gripping his rifle. He wasn't sleeping, or even pretending to, merely powering down and conserving energy.
He was Sergeant Patrick Boehm, the team sniper. He was 5'8", about as tall as I am. He had 20/10 vision and a short neck, traits that genius snipers possess. He was blond-haired and blue-eyed, a perfect poster boy for the SS.
He used to be a sniper in the US Army Special Forces, and worked primarily with the M24 sniper rifle. The M24 is essentially a modified Remington M700BDL bolt-action hunting rifle, and has a maximum range of 800 meters or so, maybe more with match-grade 7.62x51 mm NATO ammunition.
"Amen to that," the last man replied, also powered down.
He was Sergeant Anthony Chan, former Navy SEAL. He had dark hair and blue eyes, with a voice that seemed to have been made of gravel. He was about an inch shorter than I, but that was tall for one with Asian roots.
He was armed with an M4A1 fitted with a modified M203 grenade launcher and a Trijicon Advanced Combat Optical Gunsight (ACOG). The M203 was nine inches long, instead of the usual twelve inches, so that it'll fit on the M4's smaller handguard.
In the middle of the aircraft was an ammunition box. The team we were supposed to reinforce had requested a resupply as well.
"Thirty seconds!" the pilot called.
I checked my kit again. My M4A1 was fully loaded, with a round in the chamber. Each of our M4 magazines were placed in a spacer clip, allowing up to 3 magazines to be attached at a time to allow faster reloading. 3 more spacer clips were stored in a pouch on my tactical vest. The carbine's reflex sight was locked into place. Four fragmentary grenades nestled in their pouch. Four white phosphorous grenades and four stun grenades went into two other pouches. Eight batteries of two types went into two separate pouches. My final pouch contained pistol ammunition.
I had two pistols, both modified Springfield Omega pistols, both of them in tactical leg holsters. They were built on the Colt M1911A1 frame, but had a specially built slide and barrel from Peters-Stahl, a German company. It could handle higher pressures than a standard M1911 due to its different operating system. It is cartridge convertible, allowing different types of ammunition to be fired through it by changing the barrel, but I saw no need to bring my conversion kits. I've never fired two pistols before, but I subscribe to the New York Reload: when Gun One is empty, go to Gun Two.
The P1s I had were chambered for the .357 SIG round, a bullet that I didn't particularly agree with, but saved my life and those of others more than once. It was a fast, light, bullet that can be built to resemble a 9mm round, or achieve the killing power of a 10mm. I was using the latter type, since it was supposedly more powerful than even .357 Magnum rounds. I only fired three types of pistol bullets: .45 ACP, 10mm, and now .357 SIG.
Umbrella had decided to adopt a new type of pistol for its mercenary force, and eventually decided on the Omega, after adding a few changes to improve reliability and some minor details. The R & D department even added a laser sight to each pistol. The Umbrella units fit into the guide rods of the pistols they are attached to, so there is no need for special holsters to carry the pistols.
Everyone in Alpha was given the modified Omega pistols, which Umbrella called the P1. The other companies were scheduled to receive them next year. Only Boehm didn't carry a pistol; he had a Mini Uzi instead, which was in a shoulder holster. He preferred carrying it for close quarters battle (CQB).
The Mini Uzi is essentially a smaller form of the venerable Uzi, though this one had a far higher rate of fire and a folding steel wire stock.
"Fifteen seconds!" The pilot called. Outside, the buildings of Raccoon City became clearer and more distinct.
All of us were wearing urban camouflage uniforms, which was a military uniform colored in black, white and gray stripes. Over that was military-issue body armor, able to stop a 7.62x51 mm round. Our tactical vests were worn over the armor. A tactical radio was fitted into a slot on my right shoulder. An Army-issue flashlight was in a pouch on my left leg, and another pocket on my right leg had a PDA (Personal Digital Assistant) containing relevant data to the mission. Two one-liter Army-issue water bottles were worn on our belts on either side. The whole load was a little over sixty-eight pounds. As if that was not enough, we had a Ka-Bar combat knife in a boot sheath.
Because I was the point man for this mission, I had AN/PVS-7 night vision goggles, standard US Army issue. Thompson had fitted his machinegun with an NQ/PVS-14 night vision aiming system, which roughly resembles an elongated telescopic sight. Boehm's rifle's scope had a range-finding reticule and a built-in compensator for bullet drop. Chan had opted to bring a 17-in-1 survival kit. Anderson had brought nothing special with him.
"Prepare to go!" the pilot reported. The helicopter started to descend as the mercenaries grabbed the side doors and opened them.
The Jet Ranger stabilized itself, hovering over our insertion zone. In this case, it was the roof of a four-storey apartment block.
"GO! GO! GO!" Anderson called, jumping off the aircraft. I followed. Chan and Thompson grabbed the box, their weapons, and disembarked, quickly followed by Boehm. We spread out, forming a perimeter around the aircraft to cover it from hostiles. It flew off without incident.
I looked around. The roof was bare of anything, save for a massive water tank mounted on its northeast side. A roof access was the only way down.
"Bravo-1, this is Alpha-1. We are on site. Come in, over," Anderson started.
The team we were supposed to reinforce was Bravo-1. Two hours ago, they radioed their position to TOC and passed on what information they had. There were six men in that team. Three were left.
"Alpha-1, Bravo-1. We read you loud and clear. The original RV (rendezvous) point has been compromised. It's full of hostiles."
That was expected. They had reported that a large group of zombies were about to overrun their position.
"Where are you now?"
I looked around. The odor of rotting flesh pervaded the area, almost suffocating all of us, but it could not overpower the smell of death and fear in the city. Long, sinister shadows hid the beasts within, almost like that of a human heart.
"We're in the grocery store opposite your insertion zone."
I frowned. Packs of zombies were roaming the street below. According to our superiors, a terrorist group comprising of the city's ex-S.T.A.R.S. (Special Tactics And Rescue Service) members had used Umbrella's medicinal compounds and bases to formulate a powerful biological weapon. The infected were transformed into B-movie zombies, only without the lack of horror. There were rumors of another helicopter insertion into the city, long before this mess started. If there was such a thing, nobody seems to have emerged from it alive.
"Hang in there. We'll get to you."
A pack of zombies were outside Bravo-1's building, finding ways and means to breach it. Sporadic muzzle flashes appeared from the second-storey windows, all single-shot. Conserving ammunition was somewhat risky; the situation called for the profligate use of every weapon at hand to drive the zombies back.
"Roger. We can't hold out for long; we're down to our last clip. Out."
"Okay, men. Let's get to Bravo-1. We go down the building, cross the street, and reinforce them. Boehm, provide covering fire across the street. Thompson, when we're on the street, mow down whatever hostiles you see. Stone, Chan, follow me. When we're in the store, provide covering fire so that Boehm can get away. Any questions?"
"Sir, I don't think it's a good idea to leave a man behind by himself," I started.
"Sergeant Stone, don't be ridiculous. We're only fighting against zombies here, and they can't fl-"
Loud cawing erupted from around us. Scanning the skies, I saw a murder of crows heading for us. Their collective noun somehow seemed appropriate for them. They were black, foul beasts of the night, not like ordinary crows. Within their eyes burned a demonic scarlet hue, their behavior too aggressive for normal ones.
Zombies can't fly. Crows can.
"Sir, those crows look hostile to me," the sniper remarked calmly.
The crows started to gather around us, some behaving very oddly.
"Nonsense!" Anderson rebuffed.
That was when several crows dived at him, using their beaks to attempt to rip his flesh off. He screamed, and struggled to pull them off. In his panic, he fell over on his back.
"What the hell are you waiting for? Get them off me!"
"Stay still, sir. Peter, mind if you move aside?" Boehm said, coolly going prone and raising his rifle.
I moved away from his line of sight, and grabbed the ammo box's left handle.
"Howard…"
The ex-Marine complied, taking the right handle.
"What the hell d'you mean stay still!" Anderson screamed.
A loud crack pierced the night air, yellow flame briefly illuminating the area. A pair of the crows fell off him, bleeding from massive entry/exit wounds. The remaining ones scattered, shrieking their disappointment.
"Let's go!" I called, urging them indoors. More crows were gathering, drawn to blood like vultures homing on a carcass. We made our way to the door, and opened it. The ex-Marine went in, dragging the box as he did so, while I covered the others with my carbine.
The other men needed no further encouragement. They ran past me and entered the staircase. I covered them, watching the crows tear their dead siblings apart…Christ! What the hell!
When Boehm entered, I followed, closing and locking the door. I scanned the area. Bright white lights ahead served to dispel the shadows, but the fetid smell of rotting flesh indicated the enemy's presence. The machine gunner was at the right side of the staircase in front of me, behind Chan. The LT and Boehm were on the left.
"What the hell was that?" Howard asked.
"Hell if I know," Chan responded.
"Sir, you all right?" Boehm asked, slinging his rifle and drawing his Mini Uzi.
"Somewhat," he muttered. I inspected his uniform. Apart from a few superficial tears and a spray of blood over the middle of his uniform, he was all right.
"Okay, we've got to make our way to the ground floor. Chan, Boehm, take the ammo box. Stone, take point. Thompson, take the rear," he ordered.
I went ahead, carbine lowered about thirty-five degrees below the horizontal and telescoping stock tight against the hollow of my shoulder. It was retracted all the way, and securely fastened.
Crouching down, I made my way down the stairs, trying not to retch. The white painted walls were stained with blood and pitted with holes, not a good sign. My boots made no sound as they reached the floor. A door stood at the staircase's foot.
"Stack up," I whispered into the radio.
"Hey, I'm in command here," Anderson replied.
Who the hell does that asshole think he is!
"Give the order then."
"Stone, make entry, clear the area, and we'll continue."
Standard operating procedure states that if you have backup, use it. Breaching and clearing a room by yourself is tantamount to suicide without proper training, which I fortunately had.
"Roger."
Asshole.
Weapon ready, I tried the doorknob. It was locked. I kicked it open, causing it to fly aside, revealing a zombie in front of me. It moaned and shuffled forward.
Raising the carbine, I aimed and triple-tapped it in the head, causing it to shatter and spill its contents on the floor. Three brass cartridge casings spat out of the ejection port as I continued. Adrenaline flowed through my veins.
"Contact!" I shouted.
Running forward, I reached a bend, and peeked around it, spotting two more zombies. I aimed, aligning the sight's red dot with the closest zombie's head, and blew it apart with three bullets. I heard every crack from the weapon as I fired, felt the recoil as the bullet's gunpowder ignited.
Swiveling left, three more bullets exploded the next zombie's head in a fountain of blood and gore. Standing up, I turned the corner, covering the four doors on either side. Another right turn at the end led to the common staircase.
There was more shuffling from beyond the bend. Walking forward, I kept my weapon up, placing the red dot in front of the bend at head level. A second later, a zombie came into view. I adjusted the laser-projected dot to bring it to bear on its face and pulled the trigger. The recoil faded away as the zombie's head became a stump of red from the three-round burst, the wall behind it stained with blood and brains.
I waited.
Nothing.
Walking forward, I lowered the carbine, and peeked around the bend, seeing only an open wooden door, which probably led to the common staircase.
"Clear. Opening in front of me," I whispered into the mike, as adrenaline faded away. I raised the M4A1 again, covering the door as the others made their way towards me. Footsteps echoed from behind.
"I'm coming from behind," Boehm said.
I swapped magazines, recharging the carbine.
"Okay, now make your way down, one floor at a time," Anderson ordered.
I walked through the door, and scanned. There was nothing, save for another staircase. The brick walls were stained with blood. Carbine ready, I made my way down the metal stairs, finger off the trigger. Instinct shouted a warning as I reached the landing.
Turning right, I saw nothing. I crouched down, and peeked around the corner, using my right leg as support. A dead, or at least visibly dead, Umbrella mercenary was slumped over, next to a wooden door, in front of three equally dead zombies. His M4A1 was still in his hands, a stream of brass near it. A pool of blood gathered around his corpse.
"There's a dead Umbrella operative outside the third floor entrance," I reported.
"Search him for any information and useful items," Anderson replied.
I made my way over to the dead mercenary, watching the door. When I arrived, I took a detailed look at his body. He had all manner of bite marks around his corpse, still glistening with blood and body fluids. A large hole in his torso indicated his cause of death. I rifled through his pockets, finding a spacer clip of ammo for my M4. His carbine's bolt was locked back on an empty chamber, and the magazines were empty of ammunition.
I didn't recognize his face. I reached over to feel for a pulse, already knowing there wasn't one. I grabbed his dog tags. In case of death, it is the last duty we had to perform, if we could not recover the body. Their owner was 'Castle, K' from 'UCS, Delta'. I looked back to him. Castle's eyes lacked something, something that most dead men had…I had to get this thing over with before it drives me crazy…
"Uhhh…" something from behind uttered, its breath a rotten stink. What the-
I turned around, kicking a high roundhouse kick with my right leg as I did so. I felt the boot come into contact with something, and heard a loud crack. When my foot came down, I saw a bullet-ridden zombie stagger backwards. I raised the rifle, and placed three panic shots into his head, killing it finally and bloodily.
Another zombie at my feet came to life, reaching for my left boot. I brought my right boot down hard on its skull, causing it to cave in and throwing out a fountain of blood. I looked at the other zombie, aiming at its head. Half of its head was shot away. I removed my boot from the dead zombie's skull, and shook the brains and blood from it.
Aiming at the door, I whispered, "Clear."
I heard the men come down the stairs, arriving at the landing above me.
"Find anything?"
"M4 ammo."
"Keep it. Who's he?"
"K. Castle from Echo."
"Haven't heard of him. Head for the second floor."
I stuffed the clip into my ammunition pouch, filling it. The dog tags went into the same pouch as the PDA. I continued down, rifle lowered. Reaching the landing, I scanned the area, and saw nothing. I looked at the door to the second floor. A group of zombies were pounding on it, trying to get past. It was barred with boards and nails, the better to reinforce the probably locked door. The door shook and vibrated, but the boards didn't.
"Clear. And watch it; there're a group of zombies beyond the door here."
I aimed the carbine at the door, keeping as far away from it was possible, praying that it wouldn't give way. The wait lasted forever, the zombies' strikes in time with the hammering of my heart.
"We're behind you! Go to the first floor!" Anderson shouted.
I needed no other stimulus to go. Running forward, I headed down the stairs, ready for an ambush. My boots pounded on the metal steps as I continued down, arriving at the first floor without incident. I looked around.
There was a zombie in front of the door, facedown and still. I remembered the lesson a minute or so ago, and stomped on it, breaking its spine with a loud crack. The odor of decay was thick in the air, as though a large number of people had died and decomposed without burial.
"Clear!"
I heard boots pounding as the mercs above moved down.
"Uh, guys…" Howard started. If he says that, then-
"Yeah?" I said, looking at he. His machinegun was raised high, aiming upstairs.
"The door's gonna—"
I heard a loud explosion as wood gave way to flesh. Splinters showered the area, soon followed by a stench of rot.
"Get outta here!" he screamed, machinegun roaring. In the enclosed space, the roar quickly drowned out everything even as I booted the door open and entered the corridor beyond. The others quickly followed. The machinegun stopped bellowing, and I heard a ringing in my ears.
Running through the corridor, I found another bend to the left. I peeked around it, finding a zombie shuffling towards us. I dropped it with three bullets to the face, splattering blood and gore around the area.
I ran on through the bend, finding myself in front of the front door.
"Thompson, cover us! Chan, Boehm, get across to our men! Stone, take point, and cover Chan and Boehm!" Anderson screamed.
Racing to the front door, I kicked it open, finding myself face-to-face with a group of zombies.
SHIT!
Raising my carbine, I placed the red dot on the closest head, and pulled the trigger. The rifle barked and buckled as I moved it around, hosing the group with 5.56x45 mm NATO rounds. Time slowed down, allowing me to watch each death as the carbine fired, brass jumping out of the ejection port like no tomorrow. The zombies' heads exploded into clouds of blood and gray, with some skull fragments being taken along with the fatal bullets. I released my finger from the trigger, and quickly brought it outside the triggerguard, placing it on the carbine's lower receiver, its proper place until shooting starts.
"Bravo-1, Alpha-1. My man is on the street. Do not shoot him," Anderson said.
The dead zombies started to fall over as I ran out into the street, avoiding the bodies and their blood. I kicked a head-shot zombie away from me, clearing a path. Spotting another group of zombies outside the target building, I aimed at them. I pulled the trigger, and exploded another zombie head. The next kill came from another three-round burst into the head of an almost stationary zombie. My next three-round burst drilled into another zombie's face as it turned too slowly to face me. The final bullet went into the last zombie's right temple, coring it and spraying a gout of blood from the exit hole before the carbine clicked, the soft, metallic sound strangely louder than the loudest gunshot. I canted the carbine to the right, and saw the chamber. The bolt was locked back on an empty magazine. I swapped magazines, and slammed the bolt forward assist device, cocking the weapon before uprighting it.
"Roger. Damn, he's fast. The door's been unlocked. Come on in."
Turning right, I spotted no other hostiles, and the same went to the left. Time returned to normal as I turned around. The bodies collapsed, and the blood sprays continued their short-lived journey, the final act of a performance of death…if the zombies weren't already dead. Expended brass casings fell like golden paratroopers, landing and bouncing off the road with soft tink-tinks that I knew all too well.
"GO! GO! GO!" I screamed. Boehm and Chan sprinted across the street like bats out of hell. I turned right, staring down the ruined street. Empty cars were parked along the street, their windows destroyed. Trails of blood leading away from them explained why. A broken fire hydrant sprayed water around the street, the water droplets crackling on impact. They washed some of the blood from the street, but none from my hands. The mercs opened the door, and ran through. The crows were gone, leaving not a trace.
Thompson ran out of the house, followed by Anderson. They sprinted across the street, uneager to be standing targets. A large group of zombies materialized in front of me, having marched from one end of the ruined street to my location. I turned around, seeing the same thing.
What the hell! How did they get here so fast?
"We're clear! GO!" Anderson shouted. Breaking position, I ran over to the store, charging through the doorway and almost tripping over the now-open ammo box. Somebody slammed the door, and locked it. I turned around.
Bravo-1 was busy helping themselves to the ammo, reloading and refilling their pouches with whatever they could carry, discarding all the empty magazines they had. The counter was directly behind me, and the rest of the grocery store's interior was to my left. There were only empty shelves.
"What happened to your commander?" Anderson asked.
"He's dead. This…creature killed him," a stocky Caucasian replied.
"Describe it."
"It has no skin, so you can see its muscles, and has an exposed brain on its head. It has four legs, all of which end in claws. It can't stand, just crawl about. It has this freaky-ass tongue, damn near as long as its body. It used its tongue to blow through our commander's head, and actually sucked his brains out! It has no eyes or ears, but it knows where we are!"
Echo wasn't required to wear body armor or helmets, much to their sorrow. For Delta, it was optional, and many chose to forsake them. Vests became a must when Charlie went in, and many chose to bring along helmets as well. Helmets were optional for Bravo, but every man brought his before meeting his destiny. We had to wear both. Our life is a Darwinian world; the stupid ones are dead, and the living ones can only get smarter by learning from the dead.
"Licker," Anderson muttered.
"Huh?"
"Nothing."
Anderson knew more than he was letting on. A hell of a lot more. What the hell is going on here? Who the hell is he?
"Okay. Introduce yourselves," Anderson said.
"I'm Sergeant Thomas Johnston," the speaker replied. An M4A1 was in his hands.
The man next to him, a swarthy American Asian, said, "John Kim, Sergeant." A Mark 46 Mod 0 was in his hands.
"Sergeant Juan Chavez," the last man said. He was a tall Hispanic cradling an M4A1 with an M203. A pair of NVGs hung around his neck.
We introduced ourselves to the team.
"Where's your lieutenant's body?" Anderson asked.
"Why?" Chavez replied.
Anderson was about to open his mouth when I looked out of the store's window.
A large mass of zombies was massing outside the store, gathering for an unholy purpose. Some groaned as they staggered forward, stretching their arms out as they did so. Their combined stench wafted in from the gap beneath the door.
"INCOMING!" I screamed, raising my carbine.
Author's Note: This story runs parallel to the events of RE 2, RE 3: Nemesis, and perhaps RE: Outbreak. This is the first time I'm doing something like this, so please read and review. Thank you. In case you're wondering, Peter Stone belongs to the larger security force that Umbrella maintains, not the 'night men' (also known as UCBS, Umbrella Corporation Biological Security) referred to in RE 3, and the reason for Stone's slow motion kills will be explained later.