2015 hours
"Is there a back door?" Anderson called.
"Yes! There's a storeroom behind that door. A door there leads to a back alley," Chavez called, indicating the door behind the counter on our right. I noticed a pair of NVGs around his neck.
"Let's go! Stone, Boehm, take point! Thompson, Kim, rearguard!"
Snapping away from my position, I ran towards the wooden counter, and vaulted over it, landing on the opposite side with a wooden thud. Boehm opened the gate separating the counter from the rest of the shop, and walked through. Damn it.
He was closer to the door. He glanced at me, and I nodded. I walked over to the left side of the door, and Boehm took the right, Mini Uzi in hand.
"On three. One, two three!" Boehm whispered.
He kicked the door open, and rushed in, turning right. I followed, turning left.
We were in a storeroom of sorts, with metal shelves arrayed parallel to the walls. A wooden door stood along at the back. The lights were on, revealing…nothing. There was nothing here on first inspection. We sidestepped along the walls, searching the room while keeping our backs to the walls. We found ourselves facing each other at the far end of the room. Again, nothing.
"Clear!" I called.
"Clear!" Boehm agreed.
Rule number 1. Always expect the unexpected.
The door creaked open. It opened to the right, in front of me. The person who opened the door didn't open it fully, a stench of rot explaining why. What the hell… The zombies can actually open doors…
"Pete! Get down!" Boehm called.
I dropped prone.
Three loud, fast booms echoed throughout the room, almost drowning out the sound of a wet smack and thud. Wood splintered above me, floating down so slowly that it mocked the violence that prompted its existence.
"Clear!" Boehm called, his voice floating through the ringing in my ears.
I picked myself up, and grabbed the door, opening it fully. There was a large, bloody hole on the door where my head would have been. Boehm was standing at his position, Mini Uzi smoking. I looked at my feet, seeing a zombie without a head, and a spreading pool of blood and bone where the latter should be.
"Okay, out the back," I said.
"Got it."
I activated the radio.
"Sir, this is Stone. The storeroom behind the main room is clear, over."
I almost couldn't pronounce 'sir'. How the hell did Anderson become a lieutenant?
"Roger, Stone. Secure the back alley, and wait for us at its mouth."
"Roger that, sir. Over and out."
Boehm looked at me and nodded. He had heard the radio conversation. I would go in first, since my carbine's 5.56x45mm NATO bullets were more powerful than his Mini Uzi's puny 9x19mm Luger rounds. Not that I liked either round.
I stepped into the back alley. It was a roofless corridor whose walls were built of concrete, built probably because the people decided that this shop should have a place where garbage cans can be placed. It was wide enough for two people to traverse comfortably. The walls were caked with grime and dirt, the walls littered with fallen leaves and cans. To my left were two garbage cans, both empty. The alley held no enemies, but I couldn't say anything about the street beyond.
I took the right side, and darted forward for a yard or so, and waited for Boehm to catch up as I crouched down, presenting a smaller target profile. We kept away from the walls as much as we could; bullets ride along walls for a longer distance than through air. I brought my weapon up, covering the alleyway's mouth. I heard his footsteps as he ran up, taking the left wall. He crouched as well, and brought his SMG (submachine gun) up.
Together, we moved along the alley, moving towards the mouth. We stopped half a meter short of it. There was nothing on the cracked pavement outside, and the flickering streetlights revealed nothing.Glass shattered, immediately tended to by full automatic gunfire. The store had been breached.
"Lead, Boehm. Alley is clear."
"Roger. Team, move out!"
It was a tense wait. I kept my eyes on the street, watching, waiting. I couldn't turn back, couldn't rush to the other men. Boehm would be left alone, and that would be fatal. Death comes in too many forms to count. My shirt was plastered to my back, the result of sweating for God knows how long.
The sounds of battle grew louder as the mercenaries drew near. I tensed myself.
"I'm coming from behind!" Kim screamed.
The mercs piled into the corridor, shots reverberating around the corridor, almost deafening me despite the helmet. Fresh rot drifted into my nostrils, accompanied by the cries of living dead as bullets slammed into them.
"Get out on the street! MOVE!" the lieutenant called from behind.
I dashed out into the street, turning left as I did so. Boehm was behind me. I stopped on the concrete pavement, and scanned the area, seeing no zombies. I dashed down the pavement, letting the men behind run. I turned back.
Shit. More zombies, enough to cover the whole street. They lurched forward, trying to get their hands on living flesh and blood.
"Fucking RUN! Run like fuck!" Anderson screamed.
We didn't run. Fear and adrenaline gives men wings. We flew down the street, the streetlamps barely able to throw shadows around before we left their area of influence. Dead buildings promised death should we enter. The moon was right. Too many good men would die before this was over.
Boots pounding on the pavement, I looked around, seeing a brightly lit Shell petrol station up ahead, on the other side of the street. A solitary police car waited lifelessly next to a petrol kiosk. Several oil drums were arrayed next to the station's mini mart.
Gas plus empty oil drums plus match or spark equals makeshift firebomb…
"Make for the gas station! We can use the fuel and drums there to blow the bastards up!" I yelled.
"Good idea! RUN THERE!" Anderson concurred.
Sprinting across the street, my legs moved faster, racing the others. I arrived at the station before the rest of the mercenaries, and looked around. No zombies. Boehm stopped next to me. Together, we entered the mini mart. I took the right wall, leaving Boehm to have his back to the counter. I sidestepped along the glass walls, looking down the empty aisles. Nothing. Kim sidestepped along the counter, and saw nothing
"Clear!" I panted. Boehm said the same word.
We stepped outside, just in time to see the others. Thompson and Kim gasped for breath, each having lugged around maybe two-thirds of his weight at a speed rivaling a lion chasing his prey. So were the others.
"Any…thing…?" Anderson asked between breaths.
"No…clear…." I wheezed.
"Okay…fill…the oil…drums and…prepare to…blow 'em up," Anderson ordered, referring to the zombies or the oil drums or both. Probably both.
Anderson slung his machine gun behind his back and grabbed one of the empty oil drums while I walked over to a petrol kiosk. Boehm and the others helped Thompson.
Police car…
"LT, I'm going to…check the police car. It might…have something we can use."
"Okay. Do it."
Walking over to it, I looked inside.
There was a cop, lying on the driver's seat. He had several bloody wounds on his torso, with evident bite marks. He wouldn't survive them, not unless he was in a hospital right now. Maybe not even then. Blood was splattered all around the interior of the car, food for the zombies.
Despite all that, his chest was moving. He was still breathing, still alive. He turned to me, eyes very much alive.
"Hello," he whispered.
"We've got a survivor!" I screamed.
The others dropped their work and raced for the car.
"Who're you?" the police officer asked.
"US Army, sir. We're here to rescue the civilians," I lied. That was our cover story, in case someone ever asked.
"Rescue...eh? Good…about time Uncle Sam did something."
Anderson was first on the scene.
"What's your name?"
"Richard Kieslowski."
"Okay…we're going to get you out of here as soon as possible."
"Bull…shit. I'm not going to…live through my…wounds…"
"You will."
"Bull…shit. This is a…petrol station, right? There…should still be…some gas left…fill the drums up…and load my car with the monsters. I'll use it…as a kamikaze."
His car was angled towards the main road, allowing him to see the zombies marching towards us.
"We won't-"
"Look. What's your rank?"
"Second lieutenant."
"Only? I'm a captain…first US Army, now…National Guard and…RPD. YOU do as I say. Besides…I'll only slow you down. Ain't nothing…here you can use…shotgun's empty, no spare ammo…can't help you…except to…"
"But—"
"That is an order, Lieutenant," Captain Richard Kieslowski ordered, his voice transforming into one of command.
"Yes sir."
The men moved off, opening the oil drums and passing them to me. I filled five of them up, and arranged them in the car. There was one in the trunk, three in the back, and one more in the passenger's seat. As an afterthought, I refilled the car's gas tank, adding more fuel to a future fire. Total explosive yield would be enough to turn the car into a smoking crater, and kill everything within a fifteen meter radius or so, enough to cover the street.
"Okay…is there a match?" Kieslowski asked.
"Nope."
"That's okay. I've a match..."
"Uh…captain," I started, suddenly remembering the words of my Special Forces instructor.
"Yeah?"
"The gas…it won't explode, not unless heat, gas vapor and air mix. We need to put holes in the oil drums."
"You crazy, man?" he replied.
"No…trust me."
I slung the carbine behind me, and removed my knife from its sheath. The carbon steel blade was phosphated-black, meant for use in a fighting utility knife. It could drive tent pegs, hammer nails, dig a foxhole, or slice a person's heart open. In use with the United States Marine Corps for several decades of service, the Ka-Bar is still going strong.
I walked over to the open trunk, and gripped the knife firmly. I slashed downwards, the blade penetrating the thin metal. I sliced a long vertical line, followed by a horizontal one, before rotating the oil drums with both hands. Fuel gushed out from the hole like blood flowing from an open wound. I repeated that for all of the drums, and gave a thumbs-up to Kieslowski.
The man started his car for a final time. It purred beautifully. The captain drove it out of the station, and headed for the zombies. The car bomb raced through the night, a dying man's final act of defiance against his environment.
"TAKE COVER!" Anderson screamed. We ran behind the mini mart, taking what scant cover it offered.
We arrived just in time before the car exploded. I didn't see it explode, but the sound wave was enough to allow an estimate. It swept across the street, deafening me, even from this distance. My ears rang, protesting the abuse inflicted upon it. The pressure wave shattered the glass in the mini mart and lamps immediately, turning artificial day into true night as the fireball subsided. The buildings' glass were gone as well, a direct result of overpressure. Debris started falling from the sky, lethal rain formed from a deadlier cause.
"Take cover!" I screamed. The men raced for the interior of the mini mart.
Henry David Thoreau had said that heroes were the most ordinary of men. Indeed. The police officer was ordinary, looked ordinary, had a face so ordinary that it was impossible to describe. His name was Polish, revealing his ancestry, but America is a nation of immigrants, so there wasn't anything strange about that.
The nature of a hero: a person willing to help others, regardless of risk to himself or others, or fighting for a cause without losing faith, despite all odds. People like me weren't heroes, couldn't aspire to be among their honored ranks. As long as we sold our skills to the highest bidder, we were mercenaries, dogs of war, professionals in a dishonorable profession. Of course, no one thought like that anymore.
"All right, let's move out. Lieutenant Sanderson's body is just up the road," Anderson said.
We moved out on the street. I took a brief glance at the road behind us.
Kieslowski wouldn't have died in vain. His pyre had spread throughout the road about ten yards away from the station, barricading it in a sea of flame. Nothing could pass through it and live. I could feel the heat from the fire, feel his spirit from it. His car was ripped apart from within, various scrap metal parts scattered throughout the road or thrown through glass windows, probably killing even more zombies. I turned away from the roaring flames, and back to the mercenaries. We still had a job to do; I couldn't think about Kieslowski's sacrifice, couldn't think about his heroism.
"The lieutenant's body is down this street, at the T-junction. Johnston, Kim, Chavez, move along the street opposite us and take up urban warfare positions," Anderson ordered.
What that meant was that the men organize themselves in a straight line and move along the road. The point man goes first, followed by the leader, the grenadier, and machinegunner. Boehm had to take his place behind Anderson. It took a minute to form up, and we started off on our journey.
Johnston, Kim, and Chavez had to make do with three men instead of four…six, really. This operation had been a balls-up from the beginning…a lieutenant never had to command six men; it was the job of a sergeant or corporal. Some genius decided to split everyone up into small teams, not realizing that it was easier for small, separate teams to get wiped out than a large, united force. Hell, most of the teams are probably already dead.
We walked down the street, weapons held ready. The diffused light from the functional streetlights revealed that the road was empty of anything. The buildings we passed by were all damaged in one way or another, some splattered with gore; others pockmarked with bloody bullet holes. There were no corpses, no other sign of battle. The structures should have been cleared by the original 120 men. If not, well, it wasn't our job.
Sweat rolled down my face, a by-product of overheating. I couldn't stop, not now. We scanned the area around us, searching for anything still alive. A dozen or so meters later, I spotted a flash far away, silhouetting a three-storey building in the distance.
"What was that?" Thompson asked the air.
"I don't know…looks like something exploded on the roof of the police station," Johnston replied.
"A helicopter, maybe?"
"I don't know…"
We continued our journey in silence, footsteps and breathing the only man-made sounds in the area. The crows were silent, if there were any around. The air grew heavy with fear and nervousness, a prelude to battle. I checked the carbine's safety with my thumb, finding it still set to automatic. I kept my finger off the trigger, waiting for a target.
Something impacted into the ground a meter in front of me, throwing up gravel.
"What the—" I started.
It was followed by several dozen more explosions of dirt and gravel, a strange phenomenon in a city of the dead. We stepped back, in case there were some more detonations. The laws of cause and effect states that nothing occurs without a cause, and that no cause leads to anything else. They were set in stone; no one could credibly challenge it.
"What was that?" Anderson asked.
"I don't know…I'm going to check it." I replied.
I walked carefully to the nearest hole, waiting for any more. There were no more mystery projectiles. Peering into the hole, I made out the rough shape of a bullet, albeit crushed into a nearly deformed mass.
"Looks like missed rounds. Someone fired a gun into the air, and the bullets happened to land here," I shouted.
Thompson chuckled a little. So did the others, except Anderson.
"Move out!" he ordered.
Standing up, I turned around and returned to my position, staying away from the windows, lest a zombie crash through it.
We headed down the street, still tensed for combat. Buildings passed by, mostly residential buildings. Raccoon City still had the feel of suburbia in some of the more urbanized parts, at least, the last time I visited it. Now…death has descended upon it, passing judgment on all within the city.
A building's window shattered up ahead. Through what little light there was, I spotted some sort of creature climbing out of the hole. It resembled a spider, but it had four legs. It was bathed in shadow; no further description possible.
"Contact, twelve o'clock!" I shouted, crouching as I did so.
Raising my carbine, I aimed at its center of mass and pulled the trigger. Three bullets slammed into its side, throwing something out. An unholy cry followed the ballistic insult. The rifle bucked as I readjusted my aim, seeing some more bullets strike the monster. I fired again, another three-round burst tearing up its left side. Kim's machinegun spoke, sending a long stream of 5.56x45 mm NATO bullets into it even as another M4A1 fired. Every fifth machinegun round was a tracer to allow the firer to adjust his aim. Red lights streaked through the air, touching the monster and throwing out red sparks.
It fell off the wall and landed on its back on the pavement, protesting at its death. Its limbs lashed out at everything around it, striking nothing but air.
"Cease fire!" Anderson shouted.
We rushed over to it, examining our kill. It was still by the time we arrived.
The monster had been torn up badly. The entry wounds were small, but the exit holes were big and full of green ichor, thanks to the design of the bullet we used. The standard 5.56x45 mm round was designed to have the highest possible ballistic coefficient for a bullet of its type. As a result, it was barely stable in flight. When it enters a body, it yaws and tumbles, crashing through whatever organ and blood vessels it touches, leaving large holes when it leaves.
The thing we shot had a brown hide, with four legs ending in a claw. It had no obvious head, and something that looked like a mouth was under its abdomen. It wasn't a Licker, or whatever Anderson had called it. We pointed our weapons at its center of mass, fingers on the trigger, ready to kill it if it wasn't dead.
Thompson gave it a kick. It didn't stir. Another nudge yielded nothing but more green fluid on Thompson's boots.
"It's dead," he concluded, shaking away the substance on his boots. It landed harmlessly on the asphalt road.
"What do you think it is?" Kim started.
"…I have no idea," Anderson responded.
He knew what it was; the truth was in his eyes. Who was he?
"The junction is about thirty meters ahead. Move out!" the 'lieutenant' ordered.
We returned to our positions, and continued our march.
A few minutes later, the junction came into view, illuminated by a single flickering streetlight. The others around it were damaged in a variety of ways. Damaged and battered cars blocked off all entrances to the middle, a makeshift barricade against an overwhelming force. Beyond the barricade was a high metal fence, defining the perimeter of the police station.
Thompson was right; a helicopter had crashed into the roof of the police station, burning its fuel away. Its glare almost destroyed what night vision I had left.
We moved up the pavement, waiting for something to pop out. I could smell the zombies' presence from my position. Large gray rats scurried about at my feet, eager to feast on any food available. A swift kick to one of them discouraged the rest from gathering at my feet.
A few minutes later, we were a meter from the cars, guns up and scanning. The zombies' stench grew thicker and several loud moans echoed from the middle of the T-junction, signs of their presence.
Something stood up, its upper torso and head visible behind the hood of the car. I moved the red dot over its head, finger ready to race for the trigger.
"Fire at will, and charge the barricades! Flank them! Thompson, Boehm, rearguard!" Anderson shouted.
My finger found the trigger a nanosecond later. It squeezed, almost by itself, and the M4A1 barked, sending three rounds into the back of the zombie's head. It fell forward immediately, a cloud of red and gray announcing its death.
"Cover me! I'm moving in!" I screamed, adrenaline taking over. Time seemed to slow a little.
"Okay!" the ex-SEAL called, moving behind me. The men of Bravo-1 acted the same way, racing for the barricade's right flank.
Running forward, I scanned for targets. Nothing. I sprinted diagonally up to the cars, and a zombie came into view. I stopped, raised the carbine, and shot it thrice in the head; a red cloud and a loud wet smack the end result. It fell forward slowly.
"Three o'clock!" Chan screamed.
I turned to my left, seeing a pair of zombies approaching me with their arms outstretched. A three round bust to the zombie on the left brought him down, and a double-tap from Chan shattered the other zombie's face, almost deafening me. Time slowed again, allowing me to hear each crack.
Turning again, I spotted three zombies moving towards me from the center of the barricade. A burst of gunfire later, one of them collapsed to his right, blood spraying from his head wound, courtesy of Bravo-1.
The carbine became a natural extension of my body. I aimed, and shot three rounds into the closer zombie's head, taking off the top of his skull in a spray of blood. Chan took the other one, and the two of them started to fall, just as the first zombie hit the floor.
We reached the car. I vaulted over it, landing on the hood. I looked around. The other zombies had collapsed, adding more blood to the lakes of blood here. A lone, dead mercenary was on the ground, most of his body eaten away, revealing gleaming bone. A solitary hole in his half-eaten face was his cause of death, courtesy of a monster's tongue. His pistol, a SIG Pro SP 2340, was gripped in the skeletal remains of his right hand, its slide locked back. His carbine had been discarded for an unknown reason. Brass casings and empty magazines were scattered around the area. Five more dead zombies, in various states of consumption, were scattered around he. None of them had received their headshots, though. We took care of that, ending the battle.
Gun smoke curled up from the muzzles of our weapons as adrenaline faded away. A final, quick scan revealed nothing more.
"The area is clear," Chan alerted the others, his voice transmitted into the radio.
"Roger," the others replied.
Anderson came up soon afterwards, followed by Boehm and Thompson. Was he too afraid to actually fire his gun? He hasn't shot anyone or anything yet, and he chose to send us in harm's way instead of participating in battles himself. What kind of leader is he?
I slung the M4A1 behind my shoulder, climbed down from the car, and landed on a slippery pool of blood. I walked carefully on it, not wanting to slip and fall on the blood and brains. Treading on the blood, I made my way to the discarded carbine, and checked it. Its sight was functional. Its spacer clip still had one full magazine. When I cocked it, an unfired bullet flew out of the ejection port, and another one moved up. Why did he throw the gun away…?
"What are you doing?" Anderson inquired.
"Checking to see if this carbine can be used."
"Okay," he conceded.
I crouched down, ejected the spacer clip, and placed it on a dry patch of ground. I set it to safe, and cocked the weapon, clearing it. I pressed the rear pin behind the grip as far down as it would go. Flipping the rifle, I pulled out the exposed takedown pin, and swung the upper receiver away from the lower receiver. I inspected the trigger group. It was intact. Next, I removed the charging handle and the bolt carrier group.
I removed the tiny retaining pin from the BCG. Upending the BCG caused the firing pin to drop out and into my waiting hand. All two parts of it. The firing pin was broken into two. I stared at it for a second before placing it on the ground.
Then, I slid the bolt cam pin down, below a stupid looking carrying handle-like thing. After aligning it flush with the hole it was currently in, I pulled it out after a few seconds' struggle. Finally, I removed the bolt from the group. The weapon was now field stripped, taking a total of forty seconds.
The broken firing pin was the cause of the rifle's failure to fire. I wasn't too surprised. The M4A1 had a higher rate of fire than the M16 series, so there is more stress on moving parts…including the firing pin.
"So what happened to it?" Chan asked.
I held up both pieces of the firing pin.
"Damn…poor guy."
I looked at the carnage we had wrought. The men were scattered around the area, talking and trying to relieve the stress of combat. Anderson had his PDA in his left hand, and the other lieutenant's PDA in his right hand. He was downloading something into it, possibly some classified data or other.
I walked over to him when he was done.
"The M4's firing pin is broken. We can't use it."
"And the pistol?"
"Let me see…"
I walked over to the corpse, and pried the pistol away from his cold, dead, hand.
The SP 2340 is the result of a collaborative effort between SAN Swiss Arms (formerly known as SIG Arms) and S.P. Sauer & Sohn of Germany. It was chambered for the .40 Smith and Wesson round, a round originally developed for the Federal Bureau of Investigation after they found that the 10 mm Automatic round they wanted for their service weapons had too much recoil for most small-sized agents to bear. This pistol was released earlier this year, meant for law enforcement and government use with its 12 round magazine. Umbrella re-equipped its mercenaries with this pistol to replace the old service weapon, the Colt Gold Cup, thanks to some bean counters. Now, it was going to be replaced again by the P1, the result of some more bean counters.
I never liked the .40. Unless its powder charge was just right, the result could be disastrous. Over-powered rounds may cause the pistol to explode, and underpowered ones won't produce enough pressure to cycle the slide. The margin of error for the .40 is much smaller than any round I am comfortable with. Besides…I never liked the concept. It was, after all, a compromise round, standing somewhere between the 9mm and .45 ACP round.
I stripped the pistol, finding nothing wrong with it. I put it back together.
"It can work," I told Anderson.
"Okay. Pass it on to someone if you don't want it, along with the ammo."
I gave the pistol to Kim, who didn't have a pistol. His was lost somewhere, covered in blood. After distributing the ammo to the others, I learnt the dead lieutenant's story, courtesy of Chavez.
"The monsters backed us up into this area when we called for help, see. We put up a hell of a fight, and burnt most of our ammo. However, there were more of them, too many to count. We had no place to run.
"The LT used up his grenades to clear a path for us down this road. See the holes on the road? He told us to run for it, and that he'll cover us. When I turned around, the zombies had overrun his position, but that monster beat them to him…"
Chavez broke down, weeping openly. Kim patted him on the back.
I looked at the road, noticing several pits for the first time. Dried blood shined from the road, but there were no bodies, no nothing. No head wounds, no deaths. Damn it all. The zombies only died when their heads were blown off, or were otherwise subjected to massive ballistic trauma, often enough to tear them in half. Blood and gore is the only thing we didn't have too much of.
The dead lieutenant's story reminded me of several war stories I have heard. None of them involved mercenaries. I was wrong; not all mercenaries cared about selling their skills. Some were soldiers, and cared about their men.
I think.
"Take five, people. After that, we're heading down the street to our right. We still have a job to do," Anderson reminded.
"What job?" Chavez muttered in between his tears.
Author's note: Okay…this is the improved Chapter 1. I wasn't too happy with the original, so I expanded it. In RE 3, the mercenaries use a different SIG Pro pistol. The problem is…that 9mm gun was released in 1999, if my research is right, so I wrote about the SP 2340 instead. Sorry if I had offended anyone…