2215 hours
We filed through the alley, weapons up and sweeping the area. I kept the M4A1 trained on the gate, finger ready to jump to the trigger. A pair of windows flanked our sides, possible portals to hostiles beyond. After all, the zombies could crash out of the windows any time.
The moon was still one of death, full and pale, as though it had not been satisfied by the deaths caused today. I was already sick of death, at least in the numbers caused today. Perversely enough, I was still itching for battle.
I arrived at the gate without incident. As I prepared to open it, I heard a shout from behind, a glass window shatter, and a gunshot. I turned around, raising my carbine.
A pair of zombies had burst out of a window, surprising Chan. He had fallen to the ground, and was orienting his carbine towards the undead. The zombies leaned out, hungry for blood.
Whipping up his Mini-Uzi, Boehm raked the zombies with 9mm bullets, ensuring that he was shooting towards the wall and not me. Chan pointed his M4 and sprayed a long burst of 5.56x45mm NATO rounds into the two monsters. The undead flailed about in the deadly hail, disintegrating into chunks of flesh and blood.
I ran to Chan, and looked at his supine figure. Visually, he was all right. However…
"You okay?" I asked.
"Yeah. Just bruised a little is all."
I looked at his M4.
"Before you fired that burst, you fired once, right? Why?"
"Well…not really," he admitted. "When I fell on my ass, the stock of the M4 hit the ground, and it discharged."
Slam-fire. A sharp blow to the stock had caused the energy to be transmitted to the firing pin, which struck the primer of the bullet in the chamber, thus firing it. Usually, though, this only occurred to old or poorly designed firearms…
"How old is your M4?" I enquired.
"Eh…about four years old" was his not-so-unexpected reply.
"That figures. Your gun's pretty old, considering. You just had a slam-fire. Get your carbine replaced when we leave Raccoon City."
"If," Thompson replied.
"Yeah, yeah…oh shit!" Chan exclaimed.
"What?" Boehm asked.
"My NVGs. They've slipped off."
"Damn. Well, let's look for it, then," Chan muttered.
He was still standing, but he had gone pale, and winced when he was done speaking.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
"Yeah, yeah, let's just look for it."
"Okay…" I replied hesitantly. There was something about him that didn't seem right…as though he were changing from within.
Looking down, I only saw concrete ground. I scanned the area, seeing nothing. Where the hell was the—
CRUNCH!
"What the fuck!" Thompson exclaimed, looking down at his feet.
The remains of a pair of AN/PVS-7 night vision goggles lay at his feet, separated into its component parts by sheer brute force. Its innards were scattered all around, dashing all hopes of mounting a field expedient repair.
"Well, shit," he remarked.
"Fuck it," Chan spat. "Why the hell did you break the goggles?"
"Sorry, man."
"Shit…"
We left the passage without incident, and stumbled out into another road, mercifully free of hostiles. Crossing the street, the radio came to life.
"Alpha-1, this is TOC. Do you copy, over?"
What the hell? TOC was out of range…
Pressing the push-to-talk switch, I replied, "TOC, this is Alpha-1. We read you, over."
No reply. I tried again, but nothing happened. Half a minute later, TOC continued.
"Alpha-1, if you're listening, and are unable to send anything to us, you're probably out of range, unless your primary radio is still intact. In case you're wondering, we've had to boost the radio signal to get to you. Listen carefully.
"This mission has been scrubbed. Umbrella is withdrawing from the area. An unknown party has shot down the original dust-off chopper. No survivors reported. We're executing a mass evac at 0400 hours tomorrow, at the cross junction of 3rd Boulevard and Tale Avenue. We'll be using a pair of Chinooks, and we've only got one chance to get everyone out.
"The Army is moving in at dawn to clear out the city. They'll precede it with a massive artillery bombardment and air strikes at selected area. The first bombardment begins at 0630 hours. You need to get out before then, or risk being hit by the Army's barrage.
"We don't have permission to fly in air support for you guys, and there won't be an armored convey to ferry you out. The only escape route is via the evac choppers. You need to make your way there by yourself. Good luck, and Godspeed."
"Great. What now?" Chan asked.
"Well, we head for the site. We just have to keep on going straight, last time I checked. Chan, can you make it?" I asked, turning to him.
"No way out but through, kid. Let's go," was his tired reply.
'Kid'? He never used the word before…
Making our way through the gate, we emerged outside the alley, in the middle of a city street. Amazingly enough, there were no zombies in our immediate vicinity. Scanning the area, I saw a basketball court opposite the street, at the corner of a right bend. It was surrounded by a broken chain-link fence, and its gate had been forced open. A pair of streetlamps illuminated it, revealing a pair of bodies on the ground. Pools of blood gathered around their foreheads.
We cautiously crossed the street, weapons scanning for targets.
The court itself was a sad old thing, though it still endured. It was built of concrete, weathered and cracked over the years, with white lines painted to denote sections. The hoops were still intact, still retaining their coat of red paint. Graffiti markings covered some sections of the place, screaming nonsense and gang signs. An overflowing rubbish bin sat silently at a corner, waiting for something to happen.
Out of the shadows in front of me, a man materialized, catching us all by surprise.
"Contact front!" I shouted, raising my carbine.
All of us trained our weapons on him, fingers curling around triggers.
He raised his hands.
"Gentlemen, I am no zombie," he said, in a low, almost singsong voice.
I inspected him. He was wearing an expensive black trench coat and deeply polished black leather shoes, immediately reminding me of a dozen Hong Kong action films and a hundred Hollywood movies. He had a tall, thin frame, with deep-set black eyes and dark hair. There was a large obsidian ring on his right hand, perhaps the only affection for luxury he had, coat notwithstanding. A smile flickered across his face.
"Who are you?" I asked.
"My name is Trent, and I'm a…friend," he replied.
"Right," Chan answered.
"I've a proposition for you."
"Do we have a choice?" I wondered out loud.
"Not really. Your colleague, Sergeant Anthony Chan, has been wounded, no? A virus is now coursing within him, turning him into a zombie."
"How do you know?" he demanded weakly.
"I just do," he replied, adding a touch of mystery to his voice. "I'm sure you know why Raccoon City is now infected…"
"Yeah. Some disgraced ex-STARS personnel accidentally released a biological bomb in the area," I replied.
"Close enough to the truth, I guess. In reality, Umbrella is at fault. It maintains a…division called White Umbrella. It is responsible for developing biological weapons. When this crisis started, a scientist accidentally spilled a virus container in Umbrella's underground labs. This is the end result," Trent said, matter-of-factly.
"What the hell?" we shouted.
"You don't have to believe me now, gentlemen. The virus spreads by both contact with infected blood, and by inhalation. That's right; you and I are breathing in the virus as we speak, though infection by aerosol is considerably slower than being bitten or direct blood transfer."
"So…we're all doomed, then?" Chan asked, a fatalistic smile on his face.
"No. A vaccine has been developed to counter this virus, although it is also effective as a cure, with a 99.9 success rate. It is called 'Daylight'. Umbrella has stored it in the local hospital. To save all of your lives, you need to retrieve the antivirus and inject yourselves with it."
"What about you?" I asked. "Don't you need it?"
"I do, but for other matters. The only way in now is via the backdoor…at least the fastest way. The Daylight samples are located in the Director's office, on the top floor. It's in his safe, under his table. To open the door, you need a special key card. The code to unlock the safe is inscribed on the underside of the card.
"The elevator is locked using voice-recognition technology. To unlock it, you need a doctor or a nurse to speak into its mouthpiece, or at least a recording of the voice of such a person."
"So how will we go in, then?" Thompson asked.
"I have the tools necessary to bypass these obstacles. But, I will only agree to let you have them if you provide a sample of Daylight for me. There should be enough to immunize all of you."
"…All right, then. We accept the mission," I replied for all of us.
"Excellent. Should you succeed in your task, I'll be able to provide a helicopter to evacuate all of you from the city before the scheduled evacuation," Trent said, passing me a keycard and a digital recorder. I had no wish to know how he had gotten his hands on those. The underside of the keycard read "3567235".
"All right, thank you," I replied, stuffing my empty pockets with the equipment.
Reaching into my pocket, I extracted my PDA. I flipped it open, and discovered that the front cover had broken off from its hinges. Dammit. Must have been from the fall when we were ambushed by the machinegun-wielding monster.
I pressed the power button. Nothing happened.
I pressed it again. It failed to activate.
"What the hell!" I exclaimed.
"If you're wondering, your personal digital assistant hasn't really been tested to military specifications. There's a very high chance of them breaking down after taking a hard fall," Trent said, before I could say anything.
"How do you know?" I asked.
"I just do. Incidentally, the eight-foot tall creature you've encountered is a creation of White Umbrella, codenamed 'Beast'. It was meant to be the perfect killing machine: strong; intelligent enough to use weapons, learn from experience, and obey orders; self-healing; and soulless. It originally had a camera mounted on its shoulder, and a computer chip in its brain to monitor it.
"It was controlled via radio commands from TOC. However, after insertion, it suffered some sort of trauma to the head, possibly by a falling concrete block. The computer chip broke down, and the camera was forcibly removed. It is now wandering the city, killing everything it sees."
"How do we kill it, then?" I asked.
"I have no idea. It was designed to be able to regenerate any organ that has been damaged, no matter how severe, be it the heart, brains, whatever. Maybe you can try blowing it up with high explosives…you're Peter Stone, aren't you?" Trent asked suddenly.
"Who wants to know?"
"Stone…I remember you. You're from Project Omega Warrior."
How the hell did he know?
Omega Warrior was a project initiated by a branch of Umbrella to create the perfect warrior using gene therapy and genetic engineering. I was the reluctant candidate they have chosen. They changed part of my DNA structure, added in a few genes, removed some genes…all with equipment that should belong in a science fiction movie. The end result: fast reflexes, extra strength, and an extra-powerful adrenaline boost, to the point where time seems to slow down when adrenaline flows through my veins.
"You're probably wondering why you were chosen. It's pretty simple. You're the best soldier Umbrella has to offer. You obey orders, no matter how stupid they are; you are already gifted with a predatory mindset; and you have the strongest mind the project managers have ever seen," Trent said.
What the fuck?
"What was he talking about?" Boehm asked.
I explained the gist of Omega Warrior to the men, and slowly, they understood.
"Well, Stone, seems to me that you've done pretty well up to this point. I'll see you later."
"Wait!" I shouted.
Trent ignored me, walking into the shadows and disappearing from sight.
"So what now, Pete?" Chan asked.
"…We detour to the hospital. Who has a working PDA?"
Author's Note: My life is becoming increasingly busy, to the point where chapters have to become shorter and shorter, and intervals between chapter postings longer and longer. I can only say this: I will not compromise on quality. I hope you can understand. Trent is not my creation; he's an original character of Stephanie Danielle (S. D.) Perry, a writer who has produced several RE novellas to this date. All credit goes to her.