8:15am
As the car pulled up to a red light, Marigold twisted around to get a look at the backseat. "Just how many blades do you have back here?!"
Nikolai shrugged. "They said to bring a lot of stuff. That shit's not going to be missed if there's an outbreak. Everyone will want guns, not little knives."
"More for me, I suppose," Marigold replied. She shifted to get one knee under her, and contorted to reach for something in on the floor.
"Tch. So you're all this bloodthirsty then, yes?" Nikolai sounded half annoyed and half amused. He glanced back. Marigold's hair had fallen forward due to her position, and the back of her collar had stretched away in protest. A bruise had formed at the bottom of her neck - something darkening, and intermittently ringed with darker spots still.
He'd been with Umbrella long enough to know what a bite looked like…but the placement gave him pause, even as his hand instinctively twitched toward the gun in his hip.
"Hard to say, these days. I'm not exactly in touch." She straightened back in her seat, a sheathed machete in one hand. The balance of it had been modified with a weighted handle, Nikolai dimly recalled.
She looked up, then froze- visibly stopped - when she noticed the look on Nikolai's face.
The light ahead turned green. Nikolai glanced ahead and continued driving once again. After a moment, Marigold cautiously relaxed back into her seat, watching him with a wary eye. The bloody flecks he had seen earlier were gone, but the irises themselves had begun to darken to a bloody violet color since they had first entered to safe house a little while ago. A mutation in progress. She seemed unaware of it, at any rate.
They drove on for a long moment before Nikolai said, "Arms and the front of the neck are normal for T-Virus, if they're still moving around. Back of the neck would have got the spinal cord, unless zombies are suddenly giving love bites."
Some women would have turned red at that remark. Others might have spat out some caustic remark, or gone silent in anger. Marigold Ashford's nose crinkled just a bit in irritation, then settled back into her seat with her prize. She spoke again after a moment's contemplation. "How bad does it look?"
Nikolai shrugged. Perhaps he was too small a fish to merit the famed Ashford temper. No sense in taking offense at being below the notice of a creature like that. "Five days, maybe a week old."
This seemed to annoy her further, although not a muscle moved on her face. "Not even twelve hours. That's still too slow." She unsheathed an inch of the machete's blade, ran her thumb along it as if testing the sharpness. Nikolai glanced over. The blade had a small, bright red smear upon it, but her hand was clean, unblemished. She settled again, slightly more relaxed. "Well, that's just a management issue then. It should keep for now." She offered no other clues.
The drop point was up ahead. There weren't a lot of clean ways out of Raccoon City, but the scattering of warehouses and scrapyards up ahead served as a sort of service entrance for the town- quiet, out of the way, and secure.
Nikolai glanced up to the street ahead, beginning to respond - and snapped his mouth shut. The road next to the scrapyard was lined with cameras. The CDC van was parked at the far end of the block ahead, about the length of a football field. Its windows had been tinted, but he could make out the outlines of two very, very still occupants in the front seats.
He didn't slam the brakes. That would have attracted the attention of the dozen Lickers that were curiously sniffing their way over to the van. Nikolai pulled the car to a gentle stop, well outside the range of the cameras. Umbrella clearly had something brewing in one of the derelict-looking buildings beyond the scrapyard. You didn't get Lickers unless something in the labs was well and truly fucked.
Not in the wild, anyhow. He looked at his passenger, who'd gone so still she might have turned to marble. After a moment, she flinched. She didn't scream, didn't ask questions. She simply looked from the Lickers to a building beyond the warehouse for a long, long moment.
Nikolai said in a low voice, "The area is under fairly heavy surveillance. If you're looking to fly under the radar, this is as far as I go." He pointed to the cameras. "Umbrella has a lot of eyes here." He glanced to the back seat. Back at the house, Marigold had secured mover's belts around the chest in such a fashion that it could be slung across her back like some sort of hiker's pack. With her strength, it might have been an be an easy haul.
It's a kill chute, he thought. Whoever's pulling her strings is running her through a kill chute for the combat data.
Marigold hadn't looked away from the scrap yard. "That's not all," she responded. There was a somewhat dreamy look in her eyes. "Something else is in there. Something fast. The movement roused them. They're hunting anything that moves." Her eyes narrowed. "I thought this seemed too easy."
" I don't suppose you have a radio?" Nikolai asked.
At that, Marigold suddenly relaxed- just a bit- and gave a rueful smile. "I have a bandwidth, if you would," she indicated to the radio strapped to Nikolai's vest. "And one or two tricks of my own."
Lieutenant Bradley was holding so still inside the van that he barely breathed.
The man overseeing the operation had told him that the van was reinforced to take a few hits. But it was also a newer model. Designed to crumple. Peel apart. As far as he was concerned, he had slightly more protection that a package of Lunchables.
At the back of a van, there came a whimper, followed by a muffled thump. Three junior researchers were huddled in the one remaining bench seat that hadn't been cleared out, near the very back. One of them had the smallest in a headlock, hand clapped over their mouth.
Next to him, the senior researcher turned very carefully and shot them a warning glare. The man was in his early fifties, and had seen the writing on the wall.
The crackle in Bradley's earpiece nearly made him jump. "Lieutenant," the deep voice drawled through the connection. "I understand there's a bit of an impasse." Bradley bit back a curse, suddenly very glad he had rigged up the headset once they had settled in to await the final arrival. The extra passengers had been a detour, but he was under explicit orders not to reveal the identity of the man running this show.
He'd had weirder orders. Reaching up very carefully to switch on the microphone, Bradley responded. "The cameras concern me more than the BOWs, sir."
The man on the other end actually had the nerve to chuckle. "Seems like you've caught their attention. There's a small disposal facility near your location- the Lickers might go away, but I'm receiving intelligence that lot behind the cameras isn't empty. Do not engage until the pickup contacts you. Stand by for instruction, but turn on the exterior cameras. She should be reaching out to you shortly."
The call had been cut off sharply. Bradley thought back to that morning, when he drove the young woman who had looked young enough to be his daughter into this mess. As if summoned, his earpiece crackled to life once more - he'd given her the broadcast frequency, after all. "Hello, over there," the woman nearly chirped over the radio. "Lovely day for a walk, isn't it?"
On the other side of the killing field, Marigold chewed her lip in thought, then depressed the SPEAK button. "What sort of firepower do you have on hand, Lieutenant?"
Bradley shot back. "I have a sniper rifle and a personal piece. If I step out of the vehicle, it puts my passengers at risk."
"Lickers aren't much, but they're annoying if you're carrying human cargo," Nikolai muttered to her left. Ruthless, but he had a point.
"We're just out of range of the cameras, but the first person out of the car is going to draw something more aggressive than…those. Quickly."
Nikolai made an exasperated sound. "It's probably hunters. If the NEST has gone to shit, then they could pop up anywhere from the train tunnel, trying to get out."
What in the hell is a hunter? Marigold thought furiously, trying to ignore the answering chuckle in her mind responding to her irritation.
Almost on cue, a greenish-black creature moved among the wreckage of the scrapyard. Its body was somewhere between that of a primate and a reptile. It had perked up a little, drifting towards the street with an air of hungry curiosity.
It was the only one she could see. It also wasn't alone.
Oh, these things were clever. She relayed the sighting to Nikolai, whose jaw tightened with a small nod. "Hunters. In the open. Fantastic."
Over the radio, Bradley managed to keep his voice impressively level. "That factor would require more support than I have available."
Marigold considered the van across the field. "How's your aim with the sniper rifle? Would it be enough to manage the cameras?"
"I do not have the space to - "
"Pretend that your new little friends around your vehicle weren't an issue." Her voice turned sharp, demanding.
"I…well, yes, miss."
Marigold rolled her eyes. "We don't have a problem, then. Once the…ugh, 'Lickers', clear away, could you take care of the cameras for me? I'll even get the first one for you." Nikolai had shifted in his seat as if he were watching an entertaining television show.
Bradley started in again. "Miss, please listen. I served in the main security force. If the situation is as you say, we can get to another meeting point."
Marigold stared across the distance at the van, taking her finger off the button. "I don't think the poor man was briefed on me." she said in a weary voice. She paused. "Do you all train at the same place?"
Nikolai looked at her like a slow student who had finally grasped a lesson. "I think you may know the place. Rainy little island off the coast of South America."
"So the old course…"
"Fucking Matilda you mean." A strange expression came over Nikolai's face, half disgust and half pride. "I know it. Everyone knows that deathtrap. It wasn't the real exam- they used to lose too many people back when it was - but it might as well have been."
Marigold stared at him a moment. Then she hit the SPEAK button once again. "Lieutenant, indulge me. What was your top time in the Matilda run?"
Bradley took a moment to reply. She could almost hear him shrug and go with it from this distance. "Four minutes fifteen," he said, with a hint of pride.
Nikolai waved his hand in a so-so gesture. "Not bad for a full regimen. We didn't get the full training treatment." Marigold quirked a brow at him, and he relented. "Four fifty-seven." Bradley huffed a small laugh on the other end of the line, but there was a camaraderie in it.
She leaned back in the seat. "So four minutes fifteen is a pretty good time, then, these days? I don't suppose anyone ever broke the two-oh-five record."
Bradley's chuckle abruptly cut off. In a careful voice, he asked, "what do you mean?"
Marigold smiled, bright and sharp. "I mean, that I barely even know I was winning. She's a good girl, my Matilda." She unbuckled her seatbelt, eyes darting around the street before her, eyes resting on a rusting Jeep parked ten feet away from the curb - and well inside the view of the first camera. "Be ready with that backup."
She dropped the radio on the dashboard, gave Nikolai a nod, and stepped out of the car with her new blade, slamming the door just a touch too loudly. Falling back a few steps, she opened the rear passenger door for her cargo. Inside, Nikolai was visibly wincing at the noise she made. The BOWs had heard it….but they weren't moving. Not while she was focused on them.
The Lickers waited. Something was coming.
The hunters were more volatile. Their single-minded focus was oddly familiar, but it was scrambled, somehow. unthinking, territorial rage. They weren't running, not yet- but more were becoming visible. This was a pack.
Quickly, she slipped the straps of her makeshift pack over her shoulders and chest. Quietly, she said, "Mr. Zinoviev, thank you for making the time to assist me this morning. You should reach out to the number on that letter once we're done here to confirm that all three points in the agreement were met. There will likely be another offer." Then she shut the door, and drew her gun from her shoulder holster, aiming carefully.
At this range, she only needed one shot to shatter the nearest camera, mounted on a streetlight across the road. The crack seemed to galvanize the BOWs- the pack in the scrapyard was coming in at a loping run.
They paused at the street. They'd come out much, much closer to the van. Hunt down the prey, or destroy the competition? One began to move towards the van, only to be swarmed by Lickers that had suddenly lost all sense of self-preservation.
She kept moving, towards the derelict Jeep that was now conveniently out of surveillance range. Lifting the machete, she unsheathed and punched the handle through the driver's side window in a smooth motion, shattering it. She reached in and flipped up the lock, opening it up only to peel the door from its hinges. The metallic scream of the door twisting away caught the attention of the hunters - finally - and they finally turned away from the bizarre display of their packmate tossing Lickers away to lope toward her.
Marigold shoved the leather sheath of her blade into the storage pocket on the door. She then flipped the door around again so that the metal rested against her leg, and reached to grasp the sturdy handle on the outside.
She turned to advance upon the horde. In the distance, Bradley's door opened, and she could see the glint of light reflecting off of his sniper's scope.
Her blood was up, and a fight was up ahead. There were no innocent bystanders here to hide the carnage from.
And there would be carnage. These creatures left no room for anything else.
Yes, it was finally time to have a bit of fun.
The feed must have been transmitting just fine, because as Bradley finished taking out the six remaining cameras in a succession of silenced pops, the handler was calling him back to reopen the line. He slid back into the van, stowing the rifle, and opened the call with a tap to his headset. "A little tied up at the moment," Bradley said, voice low and terse. He pulled out his side piece, checked it, and held it low and ready.
The handler only chuckled. "I'm aware. The cameras are taken care of?"
"They are," Bradley said, almost grudgingly. The video feed was clearly transmitting just fine. Next to him, the older scientist was leaning forward in his seat in a mix of horror and fascination. "That girl - is that a car door?" He had a faintly Germanic accent, and the stress was pulling it from him.
"Yep," Bradley confirmed drily. The girl had brandished it in front of her like an ancient foot soldier, machete tucked tight and ready to her body. She hadn't rushed them- that would obviously be suicidal (as if wandering into a pack of hunters for a melee bout…wasn't). She'd instead planted her feet firm in the middle of the road to prepare for the incoming onslaught. Into the headset, he said, "if there's a facility nearby here, I can't guarantee that we can avoid this being recorded by Umbrella, but they won't get good footage, at least."
Outside, the first hunter leapt up and made impact with the improvised shield. The girl seemed to take a small, bracing step back- then heaved up, and forward. The hunter fell back into two other beasts who quickly began to squabble amongst themselves. Beside him, the scientist squawked in alarm, and the young researchers in the back began to timidly ask what was happening. The older man waved a brusque hand to quiet the group. Then: "Shit. It got past."
A hunter had managed to dart around the mass of squabbling monsters and hook a clawed hand around the back of her shield, drawing two deep gouges down her arm. She seemed to wince - and then the blade flashed out. The creature's hand was severed neatly at the wrist. The hunter roared, but stopped when the jagged corner of her improved shield was driven straight into its throat.
With barely a pause she yanked it back, dancing away out of the sudden arterial spray and directed the sharp edge through the shoulder of the next attacker as it raised its arms to swipe down. The blade pierced through the empty window frame, finding the target of its screaming open mouth and plunging through, and up, until its battle cry abruptly died with it.
The pile-up of hunters was badly mauled, but they were starting to refocus. Dropping the door, she pulled out her gun again, aiming carefully for eyes and mouths. Not every shot was perfect, but she took her time.
The final hunter - now surrounded by a ring of dead Lickers and furious - emitted a high scream, and charged. The girl holstered the gun and - absurdly - assumed what could only be called a fencing stance. One arm was tucked neatly behind her back, and the other held the blade aloft to meet her opponent head-on. The automatic way she seemed to fall into the stance spoke to real, dedicated training.
The scientist next to him startled. "That's a mensur stance," he said. "Back home, men would learn it in university. Kind of a rite of passage. She's German?"
Bradley shrugged. "Sounded kind of English?" The Matilda thing had caught him off-guard. She's a good girl, my Matilda. One would think she was speaking of a cherished childhood pet, not the rusting hulk of a training course on Rockfort Island that had broken many a strong soldier - and elevated others to a place of high honor within the USS.
No one actually knew who that two-oh-five record belonged to. Most assumed it had been HUNK, or Mr. Death, but he'd never claimed it - saying it had been done before his time. Most assumed that someone had found a shortcut - you were allowed that on Matilda if you could manage it, but the known shortcuts were almost inhumanly difficult to manage.
Looking out on the killing field before him, Bradley was beginning to see how this girl might have managed to swing such a thing. But Mr. Death was one of the veterans of the USS core, while this girl seemed like she might be too young to drink in this country.
There was a pair of binoculars on the dashboard. Curious, the scientist picked them up and lifted them to his face. A moment later he lowered them, face going slack with shock. Bradley glanced at the man, whose eyes seemed to be doing some complicated math to refute an unavoidable conclusion.
Up ahead, the hunter leaped. The woman parried its claws and took hold of its arm, driving it down hard into the pavement with its own momentum. As it scrabbled back up, she seemed to be circling it, darting forward to pierce it through the eye. It dropped in a heap.
She looked back up at the van - at the driver's seat. She looked…not tired, exactly. More like she'd loosened up after a hard warmup and was getting ready to be put into the game.
A dying hunter behind her gave an agonized cry, like a dying sheep. She turned, blade out, and moved quickly to finish the job before they could drag themselves back up. After, she picked her way methodically through the battlefield, bayonetting any unfortunate wrecks that had the misfortune to technically be classified as 'survivors'.
It only took a moment or two. When she straightened and looked at the van again, the scientist shrank back in his seat. Bradley touched the mouthpiece of his headset again. "Is…is the feed coming through, sir?" He was a professional. Even he was barely managing to muffle his shock into a muted flatness in his voice.
"It is. Thank you, Lieutenant," the handler said. Was that pride in his voice? Bradley couldn't be sure. All, or nearly all, of his focus was on the girl - tyrant, he belatedly realized, or something close enough to it - now approaching the side of the van. She pulled the sliding door open and heaved herself inside. The three researchers in the back - they had likely only heard the carnage, and caught flashes of it through the front windshield - collectively shrank back from the blood-spattered woman with too-bright eyes. She blinked at them, seemed to collect herself, then leaned over to pull the side door shut behind her.
A long beat passed, and then Bradley finally spoke to the one thing small enough for his brain to let him settle on. "Two-oh-five," she said, voice forced level. "How. In the fuck. Did you manage two-oh-fucking-five." The other scientist next to him had turned around to peer at her, and she blinked at him, before giving a soft oh, hello smile of recognition.
"I regret to inform you that was the average time of my last few runs," she replied, sitting up as Bradley started the van. "I don't suppose anyone used the jump points then?"
"Not at three stories up, they didn't!"
"Falling momentum is very nice jumping momentum if you land right," she replied in a honeyed voice.
"Not with busted knees it isn't," Bradley muttered, pulling the van out of its parking space into a sharp U-turn. The woman braced herself with a leg out, but seemed unperturbed.
"You must not have had very good knees then," she shot back.
Bradley ground his teeth in irritation, but the scientist sitting next to him chose to speak up. "Are you hurt, Miss…" he trailed off, afraid to voice what he knew.
She blinked at him, then looked down at her arm. Her jacket had torn down one arm, and the skin was streaked with dried blood. There were no wounds, Bradley realized when he glanced back. She made a tch sound, and said, "I just got this jacket. How annoying."
Sometime between the scientist's soft, uncertain reply and the next moment, the handler quietly ended the call.
Nikolai Zinoviev slouched down in the driver's seat of his shitty rental with a contemplative little smile. The van had sharply turned and driven away.
Interesting that they hadn't informed the pickup team of what they were retrieving. More interesting still was how the Ashford woman had been left to convince the team to work within her parameters, and then use the environment to single-handedly take out an entire pack of hunters (it almost didn't seem worth it to count the Lickers now).
It had clearly been a test for her, and perhaps a little show for his benefit.
What was the American saying? Ah, yes. He should have brought popcorn.
The center console held a burner phone that he had brought along, just in case. He pulled out the letter, skimmed it once again, and grinned. Umbrella might be on its way out, but this offer could be a golden parachute.
Looking at the letter, he dialed the number at the bottom. The call connected after two rings. "Mr. Zinoviev," the voice on the other end spoke. It was measured, calculated. "I thought we might be hearing from you soon."
Nikolai looked at the letter again and licked his lips. So much money for a morning's work, and that was just the beginning. "Well," he said with a grin, "I was just treated to quite a little show. It seems that we might have something to discuss after all."