0215 hours
Picking myself up from the ground, I found my discarded P1, and reloaded both weapons. Then, keeping the right pistol in my hand, I turned to Zimmerman, who had been guarding my tired, weary form from the occasional zombie who shuffled and lurched my way.
"You feeling better?" she asked.
"Enough to walk. Let's go."
My eyes grew heavy despite the pain in my limbs. Only a curative coma would fully heal my overused body. I shook my head, forcing myself awake. The sight of Anderson's headless body, the blood and gore surrounding it, the remains of two unlucky zombies, and that of the Beast was refreshing, in a perverse way.
Zimmerman led the way, of course. I followed, pistol scanning, head swimming, legs turning to jelly. Each step required ever-increasing amounts of willpower, almost becoming heavier by the moment. My brain slowed down, moving at a sluggish pace. I wanted to drop off, fall, sleep, rest…but I could not. Not here.
Somehow, I managed to raise one foot in front of the other. I remembered a trick from my Special Forces training during the many long forced marches: always try to put one foot in front of the other. If you can do that, then you can surely move the other foot, even just by a little bit. Eventually, you start to believe that yes, you can actually live through it, and since there's no way out but through, you cannot give up at this stage.
And then, when you repeat a lie long enough and loud enough, it becomes the truth, no matter what parents would say.
Before I realized what was happening to me, I found myself in the stairwell on the other end of the room. The two of us started to climb up the final two flights of steps.
"I set booby traps on the staircases of the first floors of both stairwells," Zimmerman informed me. "If you hear any explosions from downstairs, don't be alarmed."
"So…you're the one who blew up the staircase in the basement?" I asked.
"Yeah."
"So, you hindered my team's progress."
"What d'you mean?"
"Someone blew up the staircases in first floor of the stairwells…"
"…Oh. Okay…"
Somehow, we reached the top of the stairs, ending in a single metal door. Zimmerman opened it, and we both stepped through.
There were a couple of zombies here, one dressed in military uniform, the other in civilian attire. Raising my weak arms, I aimed at the closer of the two, and fired a double-tap. Both rounds entered its head, shattering it in bolts of red and grey. Zimmerman took care of the other.
I inspected the corpses. Mine was clearly dead, but the other wasn't. Zimmerman's shots had entered its chest and neck, but not the head. I corrected this aberration with two bullets to the head.
Messy, but all too necessary. We didn't need it coming back from the dead. I got to my feet.
Suddenly, a massive explosion erupted from the front of the hospital. The floor rumbled and shook under my boots, shaking with the foundations of the building. Glass windows all around us shattered, blown out by the overpressure exerted on them.
Zimmerman and I ran to the edge of the roof, peering down.
A man was lying on the streets below us. Several zombies lay on the road, probably dead. He gathered his wits together, forcing himself up to his feet.
There was only one route for him: through an alleyway that led to the backdoor of the Raccoon City Clock Tower. Both ends of the road below us had been blocked off by blue police barricades. The one on the left, straining and bulging in a convex manner, halted a mob of zombies, now moving restlessly, having abandoned an attempt to break the barricades. The one on the right was intact, and apparently had not been disturbed.
The man started to walk away. Zimmerman took aim at the figure.
"Don't," I said, lowering her carbine.
"Why? Didn't you see his gear? He's working for Umbrella."
I shook my head. "He's unarmed, and by himself. How long can he survive in Raccoon City? Not for very long, I assure you. Either the monsters or the US Army will get him eventually: no need to waste ammo on him."
"He could be Nikolai Ginovaef, the other supervisor in the building."
"I don't think so."
"How do you know?"
I stared into her blue eyes, wondering what to say.
"I don't," I finally decided.
"Heh." She turned away, looking for the mercenary. He wasn't there, of course. I knew that before she whispered "Shit" under her breath.
"He's gone?"
"Yeah."
"Figured."
I looked at the sky. It was still as black as the cloak of the Grim Reaper, as black as black could ever be. Lighter clouds flowed and covered the sky, obscuring it from people below. Many were shaded purple from the remaining street lamps and lights. However, here and there, several bright stars twinkled and glittered, diamonds in the sky, defying the brightest lights below.
My ears registered a faint, yet distinct whup-whup-whup to my right. I recognized the sound: it was that of the UH-1H Iroquois, better known as the Huey. Its aural signature is unique, loud and sharp and proud, befitting its status as the first general-purpose helicopter in the United States military, its lineage dating to Vietnam.
I turned. A black shape appeared in the air, moving swiftly towards us. Slowly, it resolved into a vague, helicopter-like figure, darker than the night sky. It swooped towards us, having no clear landing zone.
Until now. Zimmerman held a military-issue flashlight in her hands, and was directing the helicopter to us with timed flashes, aimed not at the cockpit, but at the sky. That way, she wouldn't blind the incoming pilots, who had to be wearing night vision goggles or consulting image intensifiers mounted in the Huey's frame.
The helicopter slowed and flared, approaching us as it approached the roof, its rotor noise growing louder and louder. Its rotor wash swept over my body, nearly knowing me over. I crouched, lowering my center of gravity, letting the artificial wind pass over and around me.
The Huey stopped, and hovered in mid air, about fifty meters away from us. It rotated, exposing its right side. Its cargo doors were open; a standing figure in the frame waved us to it.
We needed no further encouragement. Bracing myself against the rotor wash, I hauled myself over to the extraction chopper, forcing myself to move this one last time. Step by agonizing, tiring, weary, difficult step, I walked towards it, easily overtaken by Zimmerman.
"Come on!" she called from the cargo compartment, her words whipped and diffused by the wind.
As soon as I was in range, both she and a member of the flight crew extended their hands. I took them, and forced myself into the chopper with their assistance. They pulled me into a sitting position on the Huey's floor. I propped myself against the thin metal wall of the helicopter, stretching my legs, briefly aware that the absence of seats meant that I had to fasten myself to something or risk sliding away in high-risk maneuvers.
The extraction helicopter lifted off, and into the night sky. I started to slide on the metal floor.
Normally, I would stretch myself out on cargo on the floor. But, the compartment was empty. Fortunately, someone had provided leather straps for us, fastened into some ringlets on the floor. I couldn't give a flying fuck about their origins now that we were safe. Grabbing one, I planted myself on the floor near it and another strap, and fashioned some sort of makeshift brace around my waist and hips. Zimmerman followed my lead.
"Are you okay!" the figure, shouting above the rotor noise. I turned to him, nodding. He was dressed in a flight suit, probably the crew chief of the helicopter.
"Good! Mr. Trent sends his regards! We're headed for a secure facility about two miles away from Raccoon City!"
I nodded again, securing myself in place. Seats could be fitted into a Huey…but I guessed that two people didn't justify their use. Besides, they faced the outside world, and were sort of dangerous if the operators were tired, or if there was a threat of airborne attack…or if things had to be rushed.
"The US Army lied! The President has authorized the destruction of Raccoon City. At dawn, a squadron of Minuteman III missiles, fitted with conventional warheads, will be fired on the city to sanitize it! Count yourself lucky!"
I did. The military lies and lies and lies only to the men on the ground. We were effectively abandoning this city, leaving behind any survivors of the outbreak. They would have to make it out by themselves…if they could. If not, death awaited them, and they wouldn't even know.
I briefly wondered about the Umbrella mercenary Zimmerman had almost killed. Something told me he would survive the outbreak. Who knows, maybe we might even meet.
Only time would tell.
Lying down, I closed my eyes, surrendering to the healing darkness.
The EndFinal Author's Note: That mercenary is Carlos Oliviera. The explosion that preceded his cameo came from the bomb planted in the lobby, after he synthesizes the cure for the T-Virus. There are other events in Resident Evils 2, 3, and Outbreak that coincide with those in this story, though the characters never actually meet each other. These events are subtle, and require some thinking to locate. See if you can find all of them!
Announcement: I hereby declare my retirement from While I'd love to continue writing, circumstances determine otherwise. I have other commitments at and I intend to finish writing those stories first. Two years from now, I'll be drafted into the military, and I intend to finish all of my stories until then…and I still have to study for my 'A' levels, before joining the armed forces. After the military…who knows, I might even take up writing fanfiction again. Until then, goodbye, and good night.