2338 hours
It took us a little over an hour to reach the hospital. Keeping to the side roads and off the main roads, we encountered little resistance. We met three zombies (all killed by Chavez), a pair of dogs (which Boehm eliminated), and one of the leaping, four-legged monstrosities (which we blew apart)…and that was all.
Proper tactics are the key to warfare. When outnumbered and outgunned, direct confrontation is suicidal. Why Anderson had been deliberately driving us towards unfair (for us) fights is beyond me. What's he really doing? Trying to kill us?
We found ourselves in the basement parking lot of the town hospital. We assumed a wedge formation, a reverse 'V' with me at the apex, weapon scanning for any hostiles. We could not afford to let our guard down, not even once: Murphy would sic the opposition on us the second we did that.
Fluorescent lights above our heads provided illumination, dispelling the darkness of night. But with light comes shadow; the brightest light casts the darkest shadow. This is natural: everything is balanced, be it light and dark, good and evil…and life and death.
Rows and rows of cars filled the lots around us, an almost orderly throwback to the days of civilization in this city. None of them would be claimed of course; Umbrella had probably killed the owners by proxy, or the US military would. At the far end of the parking lot was the lift lobby of the basement, the only way we could head upstairs.
Something wasn't right.
There were no signs of life, but still…there was something…something in the air that contradicted my sight, but—
—A pair of bodies rolled out from behind a car—
—I brought my M4A1 to bear—
"We're friendly!" I shouted, recognizing the figures' gear.
They were Umbrella mercenaries; I could tell by their equipment. They stood up, allowing us to see their faces…
"Lieutenant Anderson?" I asked.
Anderson nodded, a wry smile forming on his lips. He was all right, looking exactly the same as he had when he had last seen him, albeit coated with a thin layer of dust.
"In the flesh," he replied, nodding.
"Why are you—" we started.
"Remember the LAW?" Anderson interjected. "It destroyed the façade of the hotel, but that's all. I dived through the opening, and avoided the debris. I managed to lose my carbine in the process, so…"
He raised his left hand, now gripping his Desert Eagle.
"I hooked up with Sergeant Nikolai Ginovaef here a few blocks away, and made our way here. We heard reports that there was a small group of mercenaries holding out here, so we decided to investigate."
I looked at Ginovaef. Unlike Anderson, Ginovaef proclaimed that he was a non-commissioned officer through his standing and aura. Contrary to public belief, NCOs are the backbone of every army, not the officers; NCOs have done a hell of a lot more than ossifers ever have…not that they'll take the credit, of course.
Ginovaef was decidedly taller than Anderson, standing at roughly 5'9". His Eastern European roots were evident in the shape of his cheekbones and nose: they were more pronounced and had a fine structure than most people of European decent. His hair was graying, but his face was still firmly muscular, as well as the rest of his body, like an old warhorse that simply refuses to die, and thrives on battle, nothing more, nothing less.
"So, why are you here?" Ginovaef asked, his voice spiced by a slight Russian accent, or so it sounded like.
"We were chased here," I lied. "A horde of the monsters were chasing us, and we shook them off. We ran here for cover."
Something told me that I shouldn't trust them.
"Very well. Care to join us?"
I nodded. "It's not as if we've anywhere else to go."
"So be it," Anderson agreed.
Both mercenaries turned around, and headed toward a door at the far end of the parking lot. I heard them whisper something to each other as the rest of us caught up with them.
The hairs on the back of my neck rose. My heart started pumping, so loud that I heard my heartbeat in my ears. A strange, overpowering sensation overcame me, one that screamed 'GET DOWN!'
Suddenly, Anderson twisted his upper torso, and let something in his right hand fly. A spherical object traversed the space between him and me. Both mercenaries dived for cover. It landed at my boots, before I realized what the hell was happening—
—"GRENADE!" I screamed—
—What the hell!—
—I lunged to my right, behind a car. I kept my body ramrod-straight, minimizing the exposed area of my torso. Landing on the hard, dusty concrete, I covered my helmeted head with my hands, carbine temporarily forgotten, when—
—I didn't so much as hear as feel the grenade's explosion, a tidal wave of raw energy that flowed through my body, screaming through my muscles and nerves. It traveled from my boots to my legs to my torso to my head, roaring like an ancient, feral beast.
Shaking my head, I heard the sound of gunfire, muted pops, cracks, and a long stream of gunfire, all around me.
Snatching up my M4A1, I groggily got up, taking refuge behind the shrapnel-racked car's rear door, its glass now shattered. Through the Aimpoint sight, I saw both Ginovaef and Anderson run for the door, taking turns to turn around and squeeze off a few rounds at us. I managed a couple of wild bursts before Ginovaef's rounds whizzed past my ear, too close for comfort. I ducked, hearing bullets slam into—and pass through—the doors, like a red-hot poker blowing through a sheet of paper.
Sticking my carbine up and through the shattered windows, I blindfired a burst, spraying in the pair's general direction without caring where the bullets went, firing in the hopes that I would hit something, anything, firing in the hopes of stopping them. Hot brass casings flew out of the ejection port, landing on my sleeves and bouncing off.
After a few moments, I stood up, shouldering the carbine.
It was no use; they were gone.
"Fuck!" someone swore.
"Anybody hit?" I called, turning.
The sight told its tale. Chan was dead. The flying fragments tore up his face; it was now no longer recognizable as human, bearing closer relation to a bloody chunk of mincemeat. His body armor stopped most of the shrapnel directed his way, but it eventually gave way. It had to. His right arm had been severed and mangled, and the rest of him had received almost the same fate.
"Me," Boehm muttered, rising from behind a parked SUV. "I was grazed by a bullet."
"Motherfuckers," Thompson spat, rising from the sea of blood on the concrete. "Motherfuckers goin' to pay for this."
"Yeah," I agreed. "But if we want to do that, we have to catch up with them. Let's go."
The three of us left Chan's body behind. Dead was dead; nothing we did would be able to change that. Mourning and sadness would come later; the mission always takes top priority. Rage, not grief, filled my mind, a cold, focused, yet white-hot spike in my brain.
I hated it.
I welcomed it.
There was no need to search Chan's corpse. The shrapnel had destroyed everything of worth to us. That much was clear from the damage the grenade had wrought. We instead pressed on, in pursuit of the traitors. Revelations like this were hard to forget, even harder to forgive, and impossible to ignore without any answers.
Time seemed to take on a life of its own. It seemed to stretch, yet contract, dilate, yet accelerate, dissolving into a treacle of reality. I crossed the distance to the door within the minute, though it felt like a lifetime. Boehm and Thompson were following me, sweeping his individual field of fire.
The room beyond was a lift lobby of sorts. On the right was a pair of closed elevator doors. Looking up at the numbers indicating its position, I saw that it was heading up, to wherever Anderson and Ginovaef wanted to go.
In front of me was a flight of stairs. Without saying anything, I led the way into the stairwell. It was flooded with light, highlighting the blank white walls, and nothing more.
We took pains to move tactfully. I took point, Thompson was behind me, and Boehm was the rearguard. Ascending the first flight of steps, I covered the upper landing, keeping to the outer edge of the stairs. I sliced the pie where necessary, minimizing my profile while maximizing my angle of fire by leaning around corners and moving where necessary.
We climbed a pair of flights of steps this way, without any interruptions. On the first floor, I turned, looking at the next flight…
…And saw that it was blocked. Part of the wall had fallen; debris lay strewn across the steps. Rough, jagged hunks of stone lay silent and still forevermore, silently mocking us from where they were.
"Damn!" I muttered.
"The hell?" Thompson agreed.
"Looks like a bomb," Boehm evaluated, catching up with me. "See the edges and crater? Those are characteristics of a medium-sized charge of explosives. I'm calling it five pounds of C4, maybe a little less."
"The hell you talking, Pat?"
"I underwent demolitions training in addition to weapons handling while in the Special Forces," he explained. "They taught me how to analyze damage caused by explosives. Whoever set this off doesn't like us…"
"The elevator, then," I decided. "Follow me."
I pointed to the door on the landing, marked 'FIRST FLOOR'. We stacked next to it, remembering our Close Quarters Battle training. As point, I stood on the left side of the door. Boehm was beside me. Thompson was opposite me, covering the door with his Mk 46 Mod 0.
Reaching for the doorknob, I rotated it with my left hand, and gently swung it open into the room beyond. There was no reaction. Slowly, I leaned around the doorframe, looking out into the room.
Rather, a corridor flanked by metal lockers. Only this, and nothing more. I stepped into the corridor, the stock of the M4A1 planted firmly in the hollow of my shoulder, finger safely off the trigger. Slowly, deliberately, I walked down the length of the corridor, the others following.
I swept the carbine from side to side, watching for any trace of the enemy. I could smell them, a faraway rotting odor that was their calling card. They were somewhere out there, hungering for flesh and blood. My heart started to slow down, but it pumped harder, so hard that I could feel it in my chest, expanding and contracting.
At the end of the corridor was a turn. I called for a halt using my left hand, then crouched and approached the corner. The stink of death grew clearer and sharper as I approached the source. Bringing my weapon up, I peeked around the corner, the Aimpoint's red dot superimposed over my field of view.
I was right. Beyond the corridor was the lobby of the hospital. Congregating in the middle were four zombies, idly slouching, waiting for one of their number to die in order to feast on his remains.
Turning back, I signed with my hands what I had seen, and worked out a battle plan with the others. Seeing them agree, I returned to the corner, and reached for a fragmentary grenade. I pulled the pin, and dislodged the safety spoon. I held both in my left hand, counting down the seconds I had left.
One thousand…two thousand…
I lobbed the grenade towards the zombies as hard as I could, placing it right in the middle of the gathering.
Three thousand…four thousand…five thousand…six thousand…seven thousand…eight thousand…nine thousand…ten thousand…
What the hell?
A dud. Of all things, a dud, at this point of time! If I find Mr. Murphy of Murphy's Law, I'm going to kill him. He's caused us enough grief already.
I stormed the lobby, carbine up. I fired a quick burst at the nearest zombie's head, seeing it blow apart in a riot of red. Time slowed allowing me to see his head collapse into itself. I moved right, knowing that the others would fan out.
Scanning, I saw that there were really eight zombies, now seven, standing about a collection of furniture. They lunged towards us, arms outstretched, moaning and groaning. Thompson let loose a long burst of 5.56mm NATO, scything through three of them. One of them fell on the ground, and was promptly lifted up a muffled, muted explosion from under him. Scarlet blood exploded out from the back of his torso, painting the lobby red. The dud was finally exploded, too late to do any real damage.
Another approached me, stumbling in its eagerness. Aiming, I fired another burst, taking its head off in a scarlet cloud. It stood, suspended in my perception of time. I found another target, and shot him in the head, too, seeing him twist around ever so slowly, brains and blood flying from the remains of his skull. I switched targets, and saw my intended victim fall to a group of 9mm rounds to the face and a stream of 5.56x45mm fire. I fired a burst at the last one's face, seeing it vanish. A trio of 9m rounds followed, and then a stream of 5.56x45mm rounds to its chest threatened to push it down.
Time resumed.
All the standing corpses fell to the blood-soaked ground, hitting it at roughly the same time. If anything, this proves Newton was right: gravity is a constant that acts on all bodies equally.
I looked out though the main door. The night was getting darker and darker, as the shadow of death consumed Raccoon City. I couldn't see much beyond the glass door, save for a streetlamp. Its lighted area revealed nothing of note, nothing worth investigating.
Just as well: we had something else to do. Boehm found the controls to the lift behind me. Slumped against the controls was a dead doctor, a bullet in his head. It was probably out of mercy; his skin was showing signs of decomposition.
The elevator had stopped at the third floor. Looking at the controls, I saw a speaker and a light bulb under the normal up/down controls. The light was on, a bright emerald green that flashed under the bright white light. Hazarding a chance, I pushed the up button.
The lift responded, descending from wherever it was.
"You know where the Director's office is?" Boehm asked.
"It's got to be at the top floor. It's always the top floor; that's where the big shots always are," Thompson replied.
Nodding, we turned our attention to the lift. I recharged my weapon, not knowing what to expect. Staying crouched, I trained my carbine on the closed doors, ready to spray the elevator car full of lead if necessary. Thompson and Boehm covered the corridors and main door, unwilling to be caught by surprise.
A few silent moments later, the car halted, announcing its presence with an electronic chime.
The door slid open.
I raised my weapon.
Empty. The elevator car was empty. Tapping on Boehm's and Thompson's shoulders, I entered the elevator. As soon as the two mercenaries were inside, I pressed the button for the top floor, in this case, the fifth floor.
Fortunately, there was no muzak to deal with, just the humming of the elevator as it rose through the air. We trained our weapons on the door, fingers on the trigger and safeties set to full automatic.
"The hell?" Boehm muttered.
"What is it?" I asked.
"Someone on the third floor has called the elevator…"
"Fuck!" I swore. "It's probably Anderson and Ginovaef. If it is, spray 'em full of lead."
There is only one penance for betrayal: death. They had earned it, just for attacking us. An explanation would be nice, but if none were forthcoming, I wouldn't lose any sleep over it.
"Okay," they agreed, just as the door opened revealing—
"FUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!" we cursed as one.
The Beast stood waiting for us, in all it horrid majesty.
It was supposed to be dead! How the hell is it still alive!
No time to think. I pointed at his groin and held down the trigger, walking a diagonal line of bullets up his coat. Tiny jets of purplish blood leapt out of his miniscule wounds, almost as though mocking my attempt to kill him.
In such a confined space, gunfire is amplified thousands of times over. When Thompson's weapon spoke, I was immediately deaf. Dozens of holes appeared in the Beast's body, jerking it ever so slightly with the passage of each bullet.
It reared its right arm back, in preparation for a right hook, its massive hand curled into a fist the size of a large ham. I dived forward, under its legs, rolling as soon as I touched the ground. I rolled over on my back, weapon up, aimed at its back.
I pulled the trigger and refused to let go, rounds roaring out of the muzzle on a one-way trip. They stitched up his back, throwing up little jets of blood. More explosions of blood erupted from his back as he threw his punch, stepping into the car.
Suddenly, I realized one of the flaws of the 5.56x45mm NATO. At such close quarters, the round will neither tumble nor fragment, instead blowing a clean hole about .224 of an inch in diameter in both sides of the target. This was the dreaded ice pick effect, so-called because it leaves a clean entry/exit hole, like that caused by the sharp end of an ice pick.
It bellowed, slamming its fist into something. I distinctly heard a loud CRACK, and immediately, I knew it was the sound of Boehm's skull caving in. Thompson swung his machinegun, still firing it, knowing that it was impotent in such a close space—
—and the elevator door closed forever, sealing both Thompson and the Beast within.
Thompson was as good as dead.
I lay supine on the floor, surrounded by brass cartridge casings. I sighed.
Fuck it!
FUCK IT!
How good many good men had died? How many? For what? FOR WHAT! What the hell are we doing here? To die? Why the hell did Command send us here anyway? Anyone with a brain would know that—
—A figure appeared in the corridor to my right.
"Freeze!" I challenged, aiming my carbine at it.
She, not it. A woman appeared, dressed in urban camouflage. I could tell by her breasts, two small lumps bulging out in the middle of her chest. She was wearing body armor and load bearing equipment, in addition a Kevlar helmet. In her arms was an M4A1, cradled in the same, easy fashion a professional totally at ease with his/her weapon.
"I'm on your side!" she replied, a touch of New York in her voice. She raised her aims, carbine swinging its sling around her neck.
"Who the hell are you?" I asked, getting up, but still aiming my weapon at her. In a world of duplicity, anything goes. Every stranger isn't a friend you haven't met, but rather an enemy whose intentions you don't know. Umbrella had screwed us over already. This woman might be next.
"My name is Evelyn Zimmerman," she replied. "Like I said, I'm with you."
"How do I know?"
"Trent sent me to help out."
"What the hell do you mean?"
"Look: lower your weapon and we'll talk, all right? There's no point going on if you don't trust me. Since there's only one of you here, I reckon the rest of your squad didn't make it. I can help you, but you have to trust me," she explained, putting emphasis on her last six words.
She had a point. Slowly, reluctantly, I lowered the carbine.
Author's Note: Sorry I hadn't updated in ten months. I've been busy with all sorts of things. I intend to finish this story by the end of the year. And then, I intend to retire from fanfiction writing, if only temporarily. Two years from now, I'm off to the Army, and I intend to finish writing all my stories (both at and before the order comes. Oh…and by the way…while I've played with the geography of the hospital in Raccoon City a little, though I intend to keep to the timeline of RE3 and RE: Outbreak as faithfully as I can.