October 1st, 1998
0113 hours
"Now, who and what the hell are you?" I demanded.
"Like I said; my name is Evelyn Zimmerman. I've been sent by Trent to assist you in your mission."
"Where're you from? You a mercenary?"
"I'm not!" she hotly denied. "Mr. Trent draws his agents from agencies all around the country. I was from the DEA (Drug Enforcement Agency) before working for him."
The accusation in her voice was justified. After all, I was little more than a gun-for-hire, selling my skills to the highest bidder. I didn't have a cause except for the pursuit of money and adrenaline, the same adrenaline rush that accompanies battle, the same one that assisted me in all my firefights to this date.
"Uh-huh. You know anything about me?" The question was delivered half-rhetorically. Her memorized answer surprised me even more than it should have.
"Yes. You are Peter B. Stone, thirty-six years old, formerly a Staff Sergeant in the United States Army Special Forces First Operational Detachment Delta. Before that, you were in the Special Forces, Rangers, and 89th Airborne Division. You saw action in Desert Storm, Restore Hope, and Just Cause. This is in addition to other deniable operations you participated in throughout the years.
"You were dishonorably discharged after a court-martial pertaining to your actions two years ago, during a classified operation that resulted in the deaths of a dozen civilians. Ever since then, you've become a mercenary and—"
"Enough! I believe you already," I interjected. I already knew what she knew about me, and I suspected that Trent knew more than he let on.
"Good. What else do you want to know?"
"Who're Frank Anderson and Nikolai Ginovaef? What are they really doing?"
"Anderson and Ginovaef are 'supervisors'. You see this mess we're in?" She spread her arms wide, theatrically turning a full circle. "This is all Umbrella's doing. Trent told you about the viral outbreak. What he didn't say is that Umbrella decided to take advantage of this. Embedded with every mercenary unit sent into Raccoon City is a supervisor, a man hand-picked by the higher-ups in Umbrella to gather data.
"You see, the T-Virus was originally envisioned as a synthetic medium that would allow the re-growth of human tissue after severe damage or removal. Umbrella, at least the bioweapon aspect of it called White Umbrella, decided that such a virus would be better suited for military applications. But, in order to see if it were as effective as envisioned, the supervisors were ordered to gather raw data and intelligence on the performance of the infected."
"How do you know?"
"I am a supervisor," she stated simply. "Just not working for Umbrella."
"Uh-huh."
I kept my mien as neutral as possible. Underneath, my mind churned and raged, thinking over Anderson's actions. The truth is always out there, in plain sight. We are all blind; we cannot see the truth unless it walks up to us and slaps us in the face, telling us that it is what it is. Anderson was trying to get us killed so that he could evaluate the performance of the T-Virus. By doing so, he had betrayed us all…and was worthy of only one possible fate.
Death.
"Anderson is heading for the Director's Office. His mission orders at this point of time are to retrieve the Daylight samples, and terminate everyone in his way. As I understand it, this is one of the only two stashes of Daylight in the city. The other is too far away to get at.
"Are you going?"
I shot to my feet, releasing energy from a coiled spring. She recoiled in shock, not comprehending how a man lying on the floor can be on his feet in a millisecond. I would have too, a lifetime ago.
"Let's go," I replied.
"Good. I know the hospital; I'll take point."
My ears registered some faint sounds from the corridor behind her, like bone scraping on metal.
Click…click…click…click…
Then, I heard an even fainter hiss.
"Take cover!" I ordered, heading for the corner.
"Wha—?"
"Fuck it!" I swore, keeping at an oblique angle to the mouth of the corridor. I grabbed her right shoulder with my right hand and kicked out at the back of her right knee, forcing her down. As she fell, I returned my hands to my carbine, and flattened myself against the wall.
"What are you—"
A long, narrow, slender, organic thing shot out from the corridor, passing through where Zimmerman's chest would have been. As it withdrew, I saw that it was dripping something.
Shifting my carbine to my left shoulder and switching hands, I peeked around the corner, carbine up. A Licker greeted me with its sardonic smile, its oversized tongue slowly dancing in the air. I shifted my sights, planting the Aimpoint's red dot on its brain, and squeezed the trigger. The carbine bucked, dispatching a three-round burst that splattered the Licker's brains over the walls and floor.
"Sheeeeeit…" Zimmerman whistled, seeing what had happened.
"You sure you're a supervisor? You should know never to stand with your back to a corridor," I reprimanded, helping her to her feet.
"Damn…oh, well."
She led the way. Walking down the corridor, she covered the left side of the corridor, while I covered the right. We kept away from each other as much as possible, so that I wouldn't shoot her in the back by mistake.
Stepping over the Licker's corpse, she turned right, and I followed. I found myself in a long corridor, flanked by four doors on either side. At the end was a metal door marked 'STAIRS'. Zimmerman turned to me, using hand signals to tell me to clear each room. As a rule of thumb, no decent soldier leaves an uncleared room behind him; it's entirely possible that an enemy might burst out from behind him and shoot him in the back.
Nodding, I approached the first door, moving in a semi-crouch. I moved quietly, slowly raising and lowering my boot, capturing all sound in my feet, maintaining balance with my hips. I kept my M4A1 trained on the door at all times, my finger curled around the trigger. Reaching out, I turned the doorknob, and pushed it open.
The room beyond was a six-bed ward. None of the beds were occupied, and all had been made. Medical equipment stood next to every one, waiting for a patient that would never come. There was no sign of them having been used at all. There were no signs of life, in fact.
I backed out of the room, and closed the door.
Click…click…click…
I looked up.
Another Licker was crawling atop the ceiling, hanging upside down from the giant claws on each of its legs.
Instinctively, I raised my weapon and held down the trigger. The resulting fusillade swept across its blood-red skinless body, throwing out jets and clouds of scarlet liquid. It shrieked, disengaging itself from the ceiling. As it fell, I fired another burst, this time into its brains, blowing it apart.
The roaring thunder didn't go unnoticed. The other doors burst open, and more zombies staggered. Some were clad in doctor's coats, others were wearing nurse's uniforms, still more had the distinct green garb of patients. They staggered towards me, arms outstretched.
"Shit!" Zimmerman cursed, to my left.
I didn't try to reply. Instead, I gripped the carbine's stock under my armpit, raised its muzzle to roughly chest level, and fired.
Time is elastic. With every shot, it slowed down even more. My heartbeat slowed and reverberated in my head, becoming back of the background noise of gunfire and groans. The carbine vibrated and flared, responding to my will. Brass cartridges gracefully ejected themselves from the ejection port, traveling in a low arc before falling to the floor.
I was spraying the monsters. There was no need to aim: in a situation like this, every bullet would hit. The zombies felt the effect of the shots. They staggered backwards under the volume of fire, blood flying in clouds and streamers. Bullets tore into their bodies, into chests, arms, legs, and heads. Only headshots counted: Intelligence had told us that much. I advanced, unleashing a barrage of lead. One by one, they fell, heralded by more clouds of infected blood.
Then, the loudest sound in the world echoed in my head.
CLICK.
The carbine was empty…and there were still more of them.
Ejecting the empty magazine, I inserted the next in line into the magazine well. I didn't ram it in, as Hollywood was wont to do; that would merely damage the mag. I pressed the bolt forward assist, seeing the rest of the monsters sluggishly shuffle forward in the sea of blood and bodies.
"Enemies to the rear!" Zimmerman shouted, her words clear and distinct, like the ringing of crystal bells.
"Head for the stairs! Blow through the ones in front of us!" I ordered.
There were four of them, still standing amidst the fallen. I snapped my carbine to the closest, and swept the remainder with a stream of bullets. They slowly danced and jerked, temporarily suspended in time, before starting to fall.
"Come on!" I urged, turning around.
Several zombies lay on the floor, bleeding. Even more were lurching towards us, hungry for our flesh and blood. There were so many of them that they jostled for space in the narrow corridor, occasionally knocking their fellows to the floor in their haste.
Zimmerman turned and ran as I provided covering fire. Again, I sprayed the advancing wall of the undead, slowly backing up. The sound of my shots started to fade away, becoming little more than a soft roar in my ears. My vision sharpened, so much that I saw faint wisps and zephyrs of smoke rise from my bullets' point of impact, mixing with the blood. Round after round tore into them, yawing and turning as they entered flesh that resided in the grey area between life and death. The front ranks of the zombies fell.
Something reached for my boot. Looking down, I saw a not-quite-dead zombie grasp my blood-soaked left boot, moaning softly. Swiveling my carbine, I fired a double-tap into its head at point blank, ending its existence.
Stepping over the zombies I had shot earlier, I backpedaled to the door, keeping my carbine firing. Its handguard grew hot, but I ignored it. As soon as the carbine was dry, I ejected the mag and reloaded.
I looked over my shoulder. Zimmerman was in the stairwell, peeking around the right side (her right) of the doorframe.
"Go! I'll cover!" she shouted.
Turning around, I sprinted towards the door, stepping over the zombies. I kept to the right (my right) of the corridor and kept as low to the floor as possible, maximizing her angle of fire. Puddles of blood splashed as I landed each boot, splattering over their sides. She fired, sending a broken line of lead down the corridor, its walls funneling her rounds to her targets.
As I approached, Zimmerman swung back, clearing a path. I stepped through the open doorway and turned around. Through the passageway, I saw the zombies approach, still full of vigor. Even now, some were picking themselves off the floor, recovering from the shock of ballistic insult.
Reaching into my pouches, I removed a pair of fragmentary grenades. Pulling the pin on the first, I threw the bomb into the melee. I did the same for the other. While both were sailing through the air, I found a pair of grenades, armed them, and threw them into the mix.
Zimmerman shut the door.
"Let's go!" she shouted, keeping away from the door. I stepped clear of the doorway, flattening myself against the wall. The corridor would funnel the combined explosive force of the grenades into a column of heat and kinetic energy that would be vented on both sides of the corridor; standing in front of the door is suicidal.
Time decided to return to normal. I heard the grenades go off sequentially, one muted BANG after the other. The door shook and shuddered in its frame with each explosion. The ceiling and walls vibrated, transferring energy from one point to another. The door visibly bulged outwards, just barely containing the force of the blasts.
Then, silence flooded in, filling jagged spaces.
"You okay?" I asked.
Zimmerman nodded. "Yeah. You?"
"I'm okay," I gasped.
Omega Warrior is a double-edged sword: the body suffers extreme trauma if it does too much in too little time. My muscles were now screaming at fever pitch. My lungs threatened to collapse completely. I took deep breaths, in and out, recovering from the demands I had placed on it. I was starting to feel dizzy, signs of oxygen deficiency. Sweat poured down from my helmet, and for the first time, I felt the sweat on my uniforms, adhering my body armor and my clothes and my skin together.
"No, you're not."
I didn't have the breath to argue. Instead, I lay against the wall, slumped against the cool concrete, completely and totally exhausted. I really couldn't care if there were any more zombies left, I didn't care if we were assaulted, and even if I did, I was in no shape to hold them off. I lay panting and gasping, trying to pull my body together.
Zimmerman covered the door. I wanted to tell her that it was pointless. The hinges had been wrecked; the door simply would not swing. I didn't. I couldn't. I was too busy panting and gathering my breath.
As soon as I could breathe more easily, I got up. My muscles protested, but I ignored them. I had to; I still had a job to do.
"Let's go," I wheezed.
"No."
"We still have a job to do…can't let Anderson get away with the Daylight," I muttered.
Before she could protest, I shouldered my carbine, and headed up the stairs. My chest was heavy and wracked with pain, but I could not stop. I had to go on. The mission demanded as much.
The climb upstairs was uneventful. Once more, we took turns covering each other as we headed up the stairs, weapons ready to fire…not that we needed them now. We twisted and turned, following the outer edge of the stairs, eventually reaching the top floor.
There was a single door at the top, next to the stairs. Zimmerman stood on the right of the door, her boots planted firmly on the stairs. I prepared myself, standing on the left of the door, breathing heavily, muscles burning. By unspoken consent, she was the first person in; I wasn't at top form.
We nodded at the same time. She moved in front of the door, covering it with her carbine. Then, she opened the door, flinging it open and bursting in. She sidestepped to the left, allowing me to storm in.
We were in another corridor, which opened out into a larger room beyond. Keeping to the left of the corridor, Zimmerman led the way. I played rearguard, covering the door behind us in case something or someone decided to pursue us.
I was walking backwards, training my carbine on the door, when Zimmerman fired a burst.
I turned around.
Lying on the ground in our line of fire was a mercenary. Zimmerman had aimed too low; blood was pouring out of his right arm. His left hand reached for his wound, and I noted the huge pistol grasped in it. It was a Desert Eagle, with the same scope Anderson was using. I aimed at the fallen body with my carbine, and fired another burst up his torso. He screamed.
I never liked showdowns: they were fair fights. Zimmerman and I approached the fallen mercenary, already knowing who he was. I kept my finger on the trigger; if Anderson showed signs of life, he would receive another burst.
I inspected the merc, towering over his supine form. It was Anderson, of course. He was the only albino mercenary in the Umbrella's employ. His facial features and voice merely confirmed what I knew. He was still breathing, unfortunately; his left arm had taken a couple of the bullets meant for his chest, and the others missed his vital organs.
His red eyes flashed in recognition as he registered my face.
"You," he hissed.
"Me," I agreed. "Where's the Daylight?"
"It's…with me…in my…pouches," he gasped. He was going to die; he knew that I knew that. After he died, we'd search his body anyway. There wasn't any real point in resistance, not for something like this.
While Zimmerman rifled through them, I continued the interrogation. "Where's Ginovaef?"
"I don't know. He's probably on the third floor. He's dealing with an Umbrella mercenary who's holed up there. Ginovaef should have killed him by now."
Shit!
"What is he supposed to do in this mission?"
"…Just like...mine…he's a Supervisor…supposed to collect…data on the zombies…and other mutations…"
There was nothing more to ask him. Any real answers would have to come from Umbrella; he would have been kept in the dark about Umbrella's scope of operations. I should know; the US Army did the same to me. I looked at Zimmerman. In her hands was a small metal case, marked 'DAYLIGHT'. Opening it, she removed a small vial from a rack inside the case, and brought it to the light. The liquid within was a deep, calming blue, as blue as the open seas in daylight. She nodded at me.
Lowering the carbine, I fired three rounds into his face.
Author's Note: Merry Christmas, from Singapore to the world!