AN: CONGRATULATIONS to The Chosen One for being my 500th reviewer! *tosses confetti* Thank You for taking the time to write, and yes - I have thought of giving Claire the "burning blood" indicative of the T-Veronica. We'll see how the story goes… Heh, heh. Cookies and confetti will also be awarded to those who can figure out the song reference hidden in the last two chapters. No hints will be given, 'cause I'm a jerk that way. ;)
Chapter 28: And the End is Here
The power had only been out for a few minutes, but it felt like the frigid outside air had rushed in to fill some kind of invisible vacuum, giving the cold, impossibly dark hallways the impression of an empty mausoleum. Chris wiped his forehead on his shoulder. He was sweating like a pig, which made the chill even worse, but even that didn't reach the deep, sick heat in his core. Chris was sure he had a fever, which when coupled with the slippery feeling in his stomach, reminded him of the time he'd eaten something nasty at a Mexican joint in downtown Raccoon. The cramps had lasted for days.
Reaching a junction, Chris stopped and cautiously peered around the corner. The hallway was deserted, stinking of antiseptic and latex gloves, with little plastic signs on the wall offering directions to places like Prenatal Care and the X-ray Department. A gurgling moan echoed in the silence, tormented and hungry. Chris tightened his grip on the shotgun, his stomach plummeting hard enough to hurt. The sound was distorted, probably by distance, but as always it was hard to tell. The damn thing could just as easily be in the next room.
I'm going to kill him. Then I'm going to kill my sister, thought Chris. He heard Jill calling his name from the stairwell, her voice low in an attempt to not to attract unwanted attention. Chris ground his teeth, emotion roiling the heat already in his stomach, and he quickly slid around the corner. He didn't need her help. He didn't want it, not after she'd taken Wesker's side in the middle of this shitstorm. He had more important things to focus on, like finding the basement and not getting his ass chewed off by the things wandering around down here. Where the hell was the basement, anyway?
Passing a nurses' station, Chris leaned over the desk – checked the floor for the nurse probably waiting to grab his ankles – and snatched one of the hospital brochures. Let's see, 1st Floor: Chapel, Café, Emergency Department… why isn't there a goddamn "You Are Here"? Leaning the shotgun in the crook of his arm, Chris unfolded the brochure and squinted at. There! Gotta go through Administration.
Chris stuffed the brochure into the pocket of his sweats and continued walking. His shoes squeaked on the linoleum. Clean. Sterile. Spotless. He tried not to think of marble floors or a filthy, abandoned lab, or the fact he was heading into the basement, where the very worst things liked to hide. Giant sharks, for example. Chris suppressed a shudder just thinking of the smell, like chemicals mixed with bile mixed with a dirty fishtank. He suddenly wished he had more than just the shotgun. Why hadn't the stairs just gone all the way to the basement?
Chris turned another corner and took a moment to scan the lengthy corridor ahead of him. More plastic signs stuck out from the walls, flagging destinations like Cardiac Care and the ED. Chris slowed down, his sneakers crunching on the remnants of a glass vase knocked from a nurse's station, complete with a sad-looking spatter of water and crushed roses. The disarray was growing more obvious. The floor was covered in abandoned paperwork and personal items, even a woman's high-heeled shoe. Chris swallowed, his eyes sweeping the corridor with almost maniacal precision. He couldn't see any zombies, but that didn't mean they weren't there. They could pop out from side doors, or even hide under furniture. Chris lifted the shotgun to his shoulder, scanning as he moved. I am going to KILL him.
Repeating it didn't make him feel better, but planning it out certainly helped, from beating Wesker to a pulp with something heavy, to shoving the shotgun up his ass and pulling the trigger. A ruthless smirk knifed across Chris' face. Maybe he'd get lucky and a giant shark would be in the basement of this building, too. Then he'd dip Wesker in some gravy and push the bastard in. All that was left was deciding whether or not to add a pair of cinder blocks. One more corner, he thought, crossing a small lobby.
A large puddle of blood lay in the middle of the room, surrounded by several overturned gurneys. There was a pair of automatic doors, too, presumably leading outside. It was nearly too dark to tell, but Chris thought he could see several bodies lying near one of the desks. He eyed them as he passed, his nerves humming as though they'd been hooked up to a toaster somebody had dropped into the bathtub. It was getting darker. Past the lobby, there were no windows. Chris pulled out the little flashlight Jay had given him and turned it on, clipping it to the waistband of his sweats. It wasn't much, but it would have to do. He jammed the shotgun butt into his shoulder hard enough for his muscles to throb, using the discomfort as something to focus on. He passed a series of desks and small offices, the familiar hum of a dialtone echoing loudly in the silence. That must be the door to the basement.
The door in question was a heavy, mint-green thing set deep into the wall at the end of the corridor. A red placard posted nearby read Maintenance Access: Employees Only Beyond This Point. Listening hard for any noise or movement from the adjacent cubicles, Chris reached out, grabbed the handle and pulled. The door didn't budge.
"Shit," Chris growled, tugging harder, but the door was clearly locked. He noticed a keypad on the wall, specifically the blinking red light above the pad. Never in all his experience was a blinking keypad a good thing. "Goddammit, shit!"
What now? A dozen impractical scenarios came to him, all of them revolving around a dirty slip of paper with a code written on it, or a half dozen bejeweled emblems stored in hollowed-out books. Chris launched a furious kick at the door and tugged the radio out of his pocket. "Dammit, Jay! You didn't mention basement door was going to be locked."
"I didn't think about dat. It musta locked down earlier," Jay replied, his voice scratching loudly. "Alright… Alright, dis is what you're gonna do. Da head resident has a keycard that'll open da door manually. You gotta git that."
"If you say anything, anything about it being attached to the collar of some rotting mongrel patrolling the fucking parking lot, I am going to scream," Chris snarled.
"Uh… no, I don't think so, man," said Jay slowly. "You're in Administration right now, so it's just up the corridor in da main office. Should be on a lanyard somewhere, maybe in the top drawer of the desk or hanging by da phone."
"And if it isn't?" Chris asked darkly, but he didn't get a response, if any had been forthcoming. He put the radio back into his pocket and lifted the shotgun again, moving back up the corridor. His life was a joke to someone, somewhere, he was sure of it. Going on the assumption that the main office would probably be the largest one, Chris started looking for that. He heard something groan in the distance, a noise no human could possibly make. He almost wished the damn thing would show itself just so he had something to shoot.
Finding the biggest office, he entered cautiously and swept the room. The office was deserted, a jumbled maze of metal filing cabinets and tottering stacks of paperwork. A cup of coffee and a half-eaten salad was sitting on the desk, abandoned. Chris started opening drawers just as something in the corridor groaned again, wet and shuffling. He scowled at the door, loathe to take his eyes off it, but after a minute of finding nothing in the desk, he moved to search the large corkboard on the wall. It was covered with all the usual junk: family photos, a pin-up calendar, and overlapping Post-It notes in every conceivable color. A large phone sat in the corner. Above it was a pegboard with several keycards, and Chris snatched the one hanging from a bright yellow lanyard.
"Yippee," he muttered, edging back out of the office. Something was definitely moving around at the mouth of the corridor. Silhouetted against the dim light of the lobby, he recognized the flaccid stance, the loose, swinging arms. Swallowing a mix of anger and revulsion, Chris backed off down the corridor, loosing sight of his target around the corner. Reaching the door again, he swiped the card through the reader and after a tense moment the light turned green. Something dull and heavy clunked inside the lock, and he pulled the door with a noise similar to an airlock.
The opening was pitch black, a gaping maw leading straight down the throat of hell. Freezing air rushed out at him, razing his damp t-shirt. "I hate my life," Chris growled, shuddering. He started cautiously down the stairs. He was pretty sure there wasn't anything down there, but he still couldn't shake the crawling sensation on the back of his neck. He tried to tell himself that it was just a maintenance basement at the bottom of a small-town hospital. A hospital owned by Umbrella, a spiteful voice reminded him, with Wesker sitting upstairs, probably filming the whole thing so he can jack off to it later.
The basement smelled like old paint, musty and clinging. Aluminum shelves lined the walls, filled with hoses, clamps, and a rusted red toolbox. A stepladder and a dirty janitor's bucket were sitting in the corner. Chris stopped to look around, panning his flashlight over the large, hulking machinery that dominated most of the floor. That must be it over there. A massive red generator crouched against the far wall, similar to the dinosaur that'd once taken up residence in the basement of the RPD.
Ignoring an unwelcome flash of nostalgia, Chris propped his shotgun against the wall and bent to take a look at the gauges. The needle was buried in fuel, which meant the problem was one of two things: a flipped breaker or a popped fuse. You'd think the great and mighty Umbrella could afford something a little better than this, he thought, checking to make sure some A-hole hadn't made off with a crank or valve, or something else crucial to the damn thing. Finding everything in its proper place, however, and all the fuses intact, Chris flipped the toggle switch to OFF, waited few seconds, and back to ON. The generator sputtered hopefully.
"Come on, you piece of shit," Chris muttered. He flipped the switch again, and this time it generator powered up with a thunderous roar that reverberated off the concrete walls. A bank of dirty yellow fluorescents buzzed to life on the ceiling, flooding the basement with light. Chris squinted against the sudden glare, a grim smile on his lips. The radio in his pocket crackled. "Yah, man!" Jay crowed. "That's what I'm talkin' bout!"
"Indeed," a new voice drawled. Chris jumped violently, seizing the radio as if were a live snake that'd suddenly coiled in his pocket. "I suppose you think some kind of congratulations are in order, eh, Chris?"
"Wesker," Chris snarled. He brought radio to his mouth. "Playtime's over, you bastard," he told the man, teeth bared. "I told you, you're not going to get away with this shit again."
Wesker chuckled, cold and scornful. "Yes, because you look so threatening in your sweatpants and Nikes," he said, and Chris felt his heart crawl into his throat. He looked around wildly, a sudden glint of light drawing his attention to the security cam mounted in the corner. The lens tightened visibly. "You bastard," Chris growled.
"You always did feel the need to play hero, Chris. How disappointing," Wesker continued, a furious, steely edge undercutting every word. "Now if you're done, I want you back on the third floor. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"
Wait… what? Why the hell would he want me back upstairs? It didn't seem right. Wesker had made damn sure to separate them last time, so why the change? The wheels in Chris' head spun in a vain attempt to pinpoint Wesker's tone. He'd heard it before, but he denied it to himself.
"Go to hell," said Chris, his voice low. He turned towards the security camera, lifted the shotgun and fired, blasting wires and plastic shrapnel all over the floor. "I'm going to find my sister, and then I'm coming back for you, you sonuvabitch," he told the radio before hurling it into the corner as hard as he could.
Somewhere in the darkness, Chris thought he heard Jill's voice come over the radio, but he ignored it, marching up the stairs without looking back. His chest was hurting again, the pain sharp and twisting. He shivered convulsively, taking a deep gulp of air at the top of the stairs. He knew what he was going to do. It'd been storming pretty bad earlier, but he was certain the chains on the Subaru could handle it. He thought it was a good plan, too, right up until the part when he realized that Claire had probably already taken the vehicle.
"Dammit, Claire," Chris muttered, storming up the corridor. The thought that she might have been privy to Wesker's plan made him sick. Even if I track her down, she's not going to listen to me, he realized. Whatever he's done to her, brainwashing, drugs, whatever – she's already taken sides. She probably thinks she's in love with the bastard. Chris shuddered in disgust. He was pissed enough to spit, especially when he remembered the .45 in the Subaru's trunk, put there because he knew if he'd ever had to change a tire at the end of a dark and lonely road, Wesker would find him there. She's probably slept with him, too. How convenient that she just "disappears" when everything goes to hell!
Chris turned the corner, and found the zombie waiting for him. He blew its head off without a second thought, putting a mushy smear on the ceiling. The whole world's gonna see what he did this time, he thought furiously, thinking of Raccoon City. He's not going to skate out of it this time.
Chris entered the lobby at a jog, his sneakers sliding in a puddle of blood. The automatic doors were in spasm, light spilling out into the parking lot. His heart sinking, Chris realized that if there were any cars left out there, they were all buried under eight inches of snow. It was pitch black outside, but the nearby buildings were silhouetted by an orange glow, dark shapes lurching around just outside the rectangle of light pouring from the lobby. Is the whole city out of power?
A hungry, gurgling sigh came from the side corridor. Chris spun to face it. Another five of the zombies were shuffling down the hallway. Must be coming to check out the generator noise, Chris thought grimly. The creature at the front of the pack was a boy probably no older than nine or ten, a gaping, bloody pit where his stomach should have been. Chris swallowed the vomit in his throat. He squeezed the trigger, refusing to look at the kid's face as the shell tore through it, adding another corpse to the ones already on the floor. He pumped the shotgun and fired again, tracking movement out of the corner of his eye. Two of the things outside were shambling towards the commotion, getting awfully close to the doors. Why are there so many of these things? The T-Virus don't spread THAT quickly. Raccoon City took a month or more to go under. What'd that bastard do differently this time? Maybe it's in the water.
Chris jumped sideways as one of the zombies actually got close enough to take a swing at him. He jammed the shotgun against its forehead and fired, knocking it flat. Warm, putrid air gusted across his face. I'm not doing this. I'm NOT letting him run me around like a rat in a maze! He fired again and another zombie's skull spilt down the middle like a rotten watermelon, flinging her bloody Barbie-doll hair with its hot blue tips. The automatic doors juddered open and two more zombies staggered into the lobby, shoulders covered in snow. Chris turned to fire. The shotgun gave a little click. Shit! He pulled the trigger again, hoping for a bad shell. Shit! Spinning the weapon around, he grasped the barrel with both hands and swung it like a club. The stock connected with the side of the zombies' head with a resounding crack, launching blood and several teeth. The zombie toppled, down but not dead. Chris grit his teeth. More accustomed to mushy, rotten corpses that'd been dead for several weeks, he hadn't expected such a solid hit.
"Chris!"
Jill suddenly came hurtling out of a side corridor, her eyes widening. She immediately dropped into a classic shooters' stance, both hands on her revolver, and fired. The zombie nearest to her jumped as she put two holes through the side of its head, blood leaping out of the wounds out in sticky spurts. "Chris, this way!"
Chris snapped his head towards her, unable to repress a hot flash of anger. He brought the shotgun around in a brutal arc, catching one of the zombies on the chin. Judging by the sound, it was an instant break. Looking around, Chris tallied about five or six zombies, more on his left than his right. The way to the front doors was clear. I can make it – there must be something in the parking lot, a Jeep or a Land Rover, something! A gust of wind howled through the automatic doors, dusting the linoleum with snow.
"Come on, you idiot!" Jill yelled, firing off another round.
Whether it was survival instinct or long years of training, Chris broke towards her with a furious snarl, walking backwards as they retreated down the corridor. Maybe it was just his imagination, but it didn't seem like all the lights had come back on. There were dark rooms and hallways, shadowy corners where the fluorescents didn't penetrate. Chris grabbed a spare gurney from an alcove and toppled it, hoping the small barrier would slow the zombies down, if only a little. He couldn't believe he was letting himself get driven back into Wesker's funhouse.
"In here you two!" a man called, waving to them from a set of swinging doors.
Jill quickly backed up towards him and Chris followed, watching as the zombies slowly funneled down the corridor after them. Muttering vulgarities under his breath, he ducked past the overweight man in the door, who heaved aside just enough to let him pass. The doors shut with a rubbery thunk and the man heaved a nearby cart in front of them for good measure, puffing and wiping his sweaty face. Might want to cut back on the donuts there, buddy, Chris thought, rather ungraciously. He leaned against the wall to catch his breath, trickles of icy sweat running down his chest. The corridor was packed with people. The living kind, thankfully. Chris did a quick headcount. Ten. Maybe twelve, including a couple of kids and an old man in a wheelchair. Where had they all come from?
"Chris, you okay?" Jill asked, touching his arm.
"Piss off," Chris growled, shaking her off. He couldn't figure out why he was so out of breath. He wasn't out of shape, not even close, but the endurance he'd worked so hard to build just wasn't there. The only explanation Chris could think of was Wesker and whatever the bastard had done to him. He grit his teeth and tipped his head back against the wall, closing his eyes against the glare of lights, but it didn't come with any peace. The crowd was whining and jittery, begging to move, to escape somewhere where they could pretend the things outside the door didn't exist.
"Alright, people. Stay calm," said the overweight man, his voice surprisingly stern. Chris cracked one eye open to look at the guy. He was probably six feet tall, mustachioed, and dressed in a navy police uniform, but so fat Chris was amazed he could even buckle his utility belt. "We going stick together and head upstairs."
Chris pushed away from the wall. "I'm NOT going back upstairs," he spat, so violently in fact, the big guy obviously had no clue what to say. Jill wheeled around to face him. "Yes, you are," she told him furiously. "I heard your little fit over the radio, and I am not chasing you all over his damn hospital again! We need to regroup, get these people–"
"YOU regroup if you want to. Suck Wesker's ass if it makes you feels better!" Chris snarled. "I told you, I'm getting the hell out of here!" He made as if to knock past her, but Jill frantically grabbed hold of him arm and shoved, throwing her entire body into him. Chris was just off-balance enough to step back into the wall again, his shoulder colliding with the plaster.
"Dammit, Chris, I said STOP!" Jill yelled. Her eyes were hard, glittering, and angry. "Where exactly do you think you're gonna go? You saw the news – the city's overrun! You gonna hike across it in your goddamn t-shirt? Or maybe you'd like to keep dicking around down here until you get bitten or killed!"
Chris felt as though he'd been slapped, the wrath inside him cooling and contracting, and he slumped, mortified by the harsh words. He outweighed Jill by at least 100 pounds, but right now it felt like she was the only thing holding him up. The realization hit him in a humiliating rush. She's right – I wouldn't last thirty minutes out there dressed like this, without any ammo. I was insane to think I could even get out of the parking lot.
Jill gave him a shove. "Now get your stupid ass in gear."
Her face flushed with anger, she cast an embarrassed glance at all the people staring at them. Chris noticed there was another cop in the crowd, a petite blonde with her hair scraped back into a bun. The silence was deafening, and it wasn't hard for anyone to hear the soft noise at the door, like a soft, mushy fist sliding across the veneer. Several people gasped and drew back. The blonde cop unholstered her service pistol. "We done with the drama? Good. Now everybody get moving," she said. "Tim, cover the rear."
The overweight cop nodded, weapon already in hand. They were obviously scared, but doing their damndest to keep it in check. Chris felt sorry for them. It was bad enough for him and Jill, and they had the dubious honor of being veterans in this type of situation. He gripped the shotgun with both hands, ashamed by how useless it was. I didn't even stop to ask Jay how many shells were loaded, or if he had extra ammo. God, I'm so stupid. Chris' face was hot enough to scald and he found himself wishing the floor would just open up to swallow him. He'd been trained better than this. Experience had taught him better than this! I'm lucky I'm not dead.
Huddled in the crowd, as ineffective as the rest of them, Chris concentrated on not meeting any of their eyes, fearing some kind of invisible judgment. One of the little kids was starting to cry, his mother desperately bouncing him on her hip as they walked. The hallways amplified the noise to uncomfortable levels and Chris grit his jaw, forcibly reminding himself that it wasn't the kid's fault. As they walked, however, he began to imagine that he heard something else, too. The noise was strange and oddly rhythmic, with an odd sort of cadence that reminded Chris of hymns in church. He peered around suspiciously, but the source was too far away for him to pinpoint, and he concluded that it must have been a radio left on somewhere.
They reached the stairwell in less than five minutes. Despite the restoration of electricity, the stairs were forebodingly dark and their footsteps echoed loudly off the concrete walls. Chris thought he heard a noise far above, like the thud of a heavy door, but it was hard to tell above the clamor. He didn't have any problem hearing the radio key up at the front of the line, however. The squelch was loud enough to make him jump. "Karen, ya hear me, babe? What's da situation, over?"
The blonde cop bent her head to the microphone on her shoulder. "We've pulled several survivors from Radiology and are en route up the east stairwell," she said, almost giggly with relief.
"Copy dat, ya! Da big man's heading down, so please tell me ya heard from da other two idiots."
Big man, who? Chris felt an uncomfortable spasm in his chest. The crowd had momentarily come to stop, but there were footsteps on the stairs, firm and dangerous. A hot fever prickle danced across the back of Chris' neck and down his spine, sweat pooling in the hollow of his back. He lifted his eyes just in time to see a menacing shape halt on the landing thirty stairs above, one hand resting on the peeling yellow rail. Black against black, most of his silhouette was invisible in the darkness, but not his face. Not the cold, disgusted fury etched into every line of it. Chris' mouth suddenly dried up, overwhelmed by the feeling that he'd screwed up royally and was about to face the music for it.
"Yeah, I can see that," said Karen. Her eyes fixed on where Wesker was lurking. "The other two are en route as well."
It was clear the last part was meant more for Wesker than for Jay. Chris felt rather than saw the man's eyes narrow. Karen started up again and the crowd followed, filing past Wesker in the dark. Chris unconsciously hunched his shoulders as he drew level with the man. So much shoving this shotgun up your ass, he thought bitterly, feeling Wesker's gaze. He stubbornly straightened his spine, but the motion fell under the category of too little, too late, and his completely ludicrous feeling of anxiety remained as Wesker finally joined the very back of the queue, following them all the way to the third floor.
After the darkness of the stairwell, the overhead fluorescents stabbed into Chris' aching skull. He ducked his head, spots dancing across the checkerboard linoleum. He was distantly aware of a voice he thought was Wesker's ordering the crowd to be locked in isolation until they'd been checked for signs of infection. If there were any protests, Chris didn't register them. All of a sudden he was desperately thirsty. A shadow fell across his feet and Chris jerked his head up. He immediately wished he hadn't, and not only for the sudden, dizzying spin. Wesker was standing not two feet away, his blank expression impossible to read, but Chris didn't need to. He could interpret the man's anger in the rigid hike of his shoulders.
His expression foul, Chris angrily straightened to his full height, which unfortunately remained about two inches shy of Wesker's. Reassured that he was at least twice as broad, however, Chris' hands tightened around the shotgun, the tiny movement drawing Wesker's gaze. Although he couldn't see the man's eyes, he felt them staring at the gory smear on the butt of the weapon. Wesker's thin lips curled into a sneer. Furious and defensive, Chris opened his mouth, but the vicious comeback never reached his lips. Blue light suddenly exploded behind his eyes, pain daggering through his jaw like condensed lightening. He staggered into the wall. The next thing he was aware of was Wesker lowering his arm back to his side, the simple movement tense with subdued violence.
"Consider yourself lucky, Chris," the blond tyrant snarled. "Next time, I will kill you."
Chris fought the horrible, misplaced urge start apologizing like crazy. I'm sorry, sir! I won't do it again, sir! I'm sorry I was ever born, sir! He clutched at his aching jaw, fighting to unearth some kind of righteous fury for his situation, but all he felt was the awful notion that he deserved this and it pissed him off to no end. "I got the power back on," he declared sourly, shocked by how peevish he sounded. He wasn't doing this. He was not defending himself to Albert-fucking-Wesker.
"What you did," Wesker growled, "was enter the area without proper equipment and without backup!" He turned and gestured violently at Jill. Chris hadn't even noticed her. "I'm disappointed in you, Valentine. I expect this kind of stupidity from him, but from you? You both could have been killed!"
Chris blinked, the gears in his head grinding to a furious, smoking halt. This all sounded horribly familiar. I'm not hearing this. Not now. Not from you, you sonuvabitch. He watched as Jill guiltily avoided Wesker's gaze, her eyes on the floor. She mumbled some apology that Chris didn't catch. The pain made his eyes water, blurring everything until he could have easily mistaken it for the RPD precinct, ablaze with racks of buzzing fluorescents that were just overkill with all hot Midwestern sunlight streaming through the windows. Chris' tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, the shotgun slipping between his sweaty hands. Why would you care if we got killed? Something's not right… this whole thing isn't right…
He wanted to rebuff the accusations, but there was no hope of denying them, not even to himself. The corner of a brochure poked his thigh through his sweatpants and Chris grit his throbbing jaw. I didn't even know which way I was going, he thought, mortified. I knew those other two cops were around. It's not like I didn't have any backup at all. I should have waited.
Wesker turned back to him. "Move from this floor again and you'll be sorry you were ever born," he said coldly. Chris glared at the man as he walked away, trying his damndest to burn a hole in his back, but the effort hurt his already throbbing eyes and he was eventually forced to drop his gaze. Pink footprints stared up at him from the linoleum, and it was then that Chris noticed the blood on his sneakers. Great. Just… just great. Something else I can screw up. He stooped to unlace his shoes.
Holding them in one hand and shotgun in the other, he briefly caught Jill's eye. She flashed him an icy look and turned her back, disappearing into the press of humanity clogging the hallway. Yeah, fine. Be that way, you bitch, thought Chris. Barefoot, he padded down the corridor to the men's bathroom and shoved the butt of the shotgun under the faucet, rinsing it with off with several minutes of soap and scalding water. There was a can of citrus disinfectant on the shelf, so it sprayed it with that, too. Hey, if it claimed to kill viruses, why the hell not?
Looking at himself in the mirror, he could see a livid purple bruise beginning to form along his jaw. He rubbed at it with a scowl. Who the hell does he think he is, anyway? Dirty rotten bastard, he can't just lecture me like we're back in Raccoon! He rinsed the bottom of his sneakers and gave them a half-assed scrub with a wad of brown paper towels. Why's he acting like he gives a damn, anyway? Something's not adding up. Stuffing his cold feet back into his sneakers, Chris thought about the moment Wesker had showed up here. Tactile memories of pressure and drowning, and the taste of blood filled his head. Chris grimaced and rubbed at his chest.
His recollection was understandably cloudy, but Chris was positive that Wesker had told him something completely insane, like not having his permission to die. It didn't make any sense. What's your end game? I can't die until whatever you've done to me gets you enough data? Now that did make sense, but even so, it felt shaky. Something was clearly off with the equation. 2 + 2 did not equal 5. Does he need me alive so he can keep my sister under his thumb, like some kind of hostage? Chris scowled at his reflection in the mirror, scraping his hand over three days worth of stubble. He looked like a zombie himself, all pale skin and dark, baggy eyes. In a moment of lucidity, he wondered why Wesker would risk another outbreak. Surely with all the ass-kissing he'd been doing trying to deify himself as the savior of mankind, sending another city down the toilet would amount to a whole lot of bad PR.
Unless this is the part where Umbrella shows up to save the day, Chris thought sourly. To him, it seemed more than likely.
After watching "Mr. Death" pull himself an arsenal out of the trunk and suit up for the impending apocalypse, riot helmet and gasmask included, Claire had expected something a bit more climactic than sitting in the parking lot. The stranger hadn't spoken a word in over 45 minutes and was now perusing a handheld GPS, the light glinting oddly on the eyes of his mask. Claire was desperate for answers, for some kind of solution to their current predicament, but Mr. Death wasn't offering one and she'd already decided that fussing wasn't going to change anything. Full night had fallen around them and the mountain was bitterly cold. Traffic had ground to a standstill, the line of vehicles slowing disappearing under an increasingly thick layer of snow. Everything glowed in shades of red and dirty yellow. Many people had desperately abandoned their cars and started to hike up the freeway, but only some of them were prepared to face the storm. Claire had tried to call out to them, but after watching a woman in high-heels and a skirt try to struggle through the snow, she'd finally given up. These people were beyond common sense.
Claire glanced inside the mini mart. It was clogged with people who'd decided to get off the freeway and huddle inside, their faces pale in the light. Some of them were clutching cups of coffee or smoking cigarettes, scowling and afraid. Claire understood how they felt. Her right knee was bouncing up and down, tapping out a silent rhythm. She'd taken the revolver out of her waistband and laid it in her lap. The sight of it made her feel better, which wasn't saying much. She was jittery and upset, her mind whirling with hundreds of what-if's. Are Chris and Jill alright? What's Wesker's doing? He must have called the island by now… but how could there possibly be an outbreak? Chris is going to do something stupid, I just know it.
She took a deep breath and forced herself to sit quietly, listening to the radio the stranger had placed on the dashboard. The news definitely wasn't good. There had been three separate explosions across town: the local mall, a busy downtown intersection, and a police precinct. Things had literally gone to hell after that. It can't be coincidence, thought Claire, listening to the cops struggling to hold several positions across the city. Worse still, there was chatter that the hospital had gone dark over an hour ago. Claire swallowed the pain in her throat. Somebody did all this deliberately. The virus was tied to the explosions somehow. People get hurt, get infected, and then they're taken to the hospital or the morgue, so there's as much chaos in as many areas as possible. God, I hope everybody's okay – the whole hospital's probably crawling by now! She desperately wanted to go back there, but she didn't bother embarrassing herself by suggesting that they attempt suicide.
"We could always play 20 Questions, Red," the stranger said dryly.
His voice was so sudden and insanely out of place that Claire burst into nervous laughter. She leaned back and stretched her neck over the headrest, feeling several vertebrae pop. She almost wished those priests would show up just so she could shoot one in the head and relieve some tension. And while the stranger's presence was a comfort in some ways, Claire still couldn't help but feel annoyed. What was I thinking, leaving the hospital? Like some dumb Hollywood blonde that gets picked off in the first 20 minutes of the movie, or has to be rescued 'cause she's an idiot. Now here I am, stuck out on the highway while everybody else is probably fighting for their lives. She crossed her arms in a silent huff, realizing that she was probably being hard on herself, but still, being grouchy was it's own kind of therapy.
The radio on the dashboard keyed up loudly. "Zero-Nine-Alpha. White Division number 38 en route to Harvardville, ETA 20 minutes. Containment procedure now in progress."
Mr. Death picked up the radio. "Umbrella Special Operative HUNK confirms. Zero-Twenty-Omega. Highway 50 is wall-to-wall. Recommend establishing an alternate route, over."
"Acknowledged. Establishing an AO approximately thirty miles west of Harvardville. Position of Red King confirmed hotbed. Extraction of personnel highest priority. Red Command 1 has deployed addition containment units, ETA 9 hours, over."
"Special operative confirms." Mr. Death put the radio back and reached for the ignition. The engine turned over with a sturdy growl. Claire sat up straighter, suddenly on edge. She hadn't understood all of the dispatch, but what she'd figured out had been enough. "Now what?" she asked.
"Now we get out of Dodge."
Mr. Death reversed across the parking lot, turning the Jeep back the way they'd came. Claire looked at the row of stalled and abandoned vehicles. What's he doing? We'll never be able to get on the highway. Mr. Death angled the vehicle towards the end of the parking lot and the dark, snowy field beyond. Oh, shit. Claire hastily buckled her seatbelt and braced for dear life as the stranger threw the Jeep into gear. The vehicle leapt forward, mounted the curb, and plowed into the drifts with almost maniacal enthusiasm, churning snow in its wake and bouncing over a series of hidden ruts. We're gonna get stuck out here!
Mr. Death shifted again, forcing the Jeep over a clump of bushes and down a gut-wrenching hill on the other side. Claire desperately braced her boot against the dash as they skidded through the trees, branches lashing the windows, and fishtailed out onto a much smaller road at the bottom of the hill. They straightened out and continued into the pitch darkness, bobbing headlights leading the way. Her heart in her throat, Claire slowly put her foot down. "You're insane!"
"Probably, but there's a fine line between insanity and genius," Mr. Death remarked, activating the wipers. "We should've picked up something to eat at the mart. Find that radio, would you? I think it's under your seat."
Mystified by the stranger's attitude, so out of keeping with the gravity of the situation, Claire fished the radio out from where it'd flown in a mad exodus off the dashboard. Don't be fooled, she told herself. He probably has a body count well into the double-digits. Where on Earth does Wesker find these people? Illuminated by the green light of the dashboard, Mr. Death was leaning forward in his seat, the ultimate picture of concentration. Feeling the Jeep bounce over yet another hidden obstacle, Claire decided to put her boot on the dash again. Judging by the lack of snow removal and the thick, encroaching woods, they were traveling on an unpaved Forestry Service road.
"So what exactly is your name, anyway? Mr. Death? Hunk? What?"
"Take your pick," said the stranger, not taking his eyes from the road.
They started up a hill, cranking out a mixture of snow and icy mud in the rearview mirror. The radio in Claire's lap continued to squelch out horrific reports of fire and death. Several city blocks had already been abandoned by the fire department, unable to combat the both blaze and the increasing number of zombies. Seems so stupid to call them that, even if that's what they are, thought Claire. Like it's some stupid video game. In a sudden flash of inspiration, she tugged her cellphone out of her back pocket and dialed Wesker's number, hoping two bars would be enough. The phone let out a rude beep and flashed the words Emergency Calls Only.
This IS an emergency call, you piece of crap, Claire seethed. She clicked the phone shut again. Not knowing what was happening was killing her. She'd lived through two outbreaks before – three, counting the little fiasco on Mont St. Michel – but watching one unfold from the other side of the fence was something new. How would Umbrella handle a biohazard outside of Wesker's island kingdom? Claire thought uneasily of the nuke they'd dropped on Raccoon City.
"What's going to happen now?" she asked soberly.
"Step One: barricade the affected area and evacuate as many as possible," Mr. Death answered. "Step Two: helicopters in the air and boots on the ground. Cooperate with the local military to neutralize the infected populace. Step Three: locate the source of the outbreak, interchangeable with Step Two."
Claire nodded, thinking. "Would they drop another bomb?"
"Depends," said Mr. Death.
"On what?"
"On the percentage that's been infected."
It was a grim reality no matter how you looked at it. Claire shifted in her seat, leather vest rustling against the upholstery. The interior of the Jeep was hot, but not uncomfortable. She wondered again about the priests. Do they have anything to do with the outbreak? And why were they after me to begin with? Remembering Wesker's warning about people wanting to use her to get to him, Claire suppressed a grimace. If I'm in danger, Chris and Jill probably are, too. Mr. Death-Hunk did say he was guarding my brother before he had to come chasing after me – assuming, of course, that he IS working for Wesker and can be trusted. He didn't exactly give me a guarantee.
Claire glanced sideways at her would-be bodyguard. She wasn't getting any bad vibes, so she supposed that she trusted him – to a point. Either way, the outbreak can't be coincidence. Our luck isn't THAT bad, but I'm sure my brother thinks it's Wesker's fault. Even she had to admit the evidence looked rather damning, with Wesker showing up two hours before the city turned into a replay of Raccoon could already hear Chris ranting and raving about how the man had accomplished it, everything from air strikes with stealth bombers to dosing the water treatment plant. Claire smiled grimly to herself. Then again, I seem to remember accusing him of just about the same thing. Everything in our lives is just so screwed up. And I hate being stuck in this car!
"And what about us?" she asked, her frustration audible. "Where exactly are we going?"
"We are going to meet up with the Umbrella division setting up outside of town."
The trees thinned out and they turned left onto a much wider road where the snowfall wasn't as thick. The Jeep fishtailed, slipping on a layer of ice, but found purchase again almost as fast. Claire tensed her ankle on the dash. I'm gonna kill this guy when we stop, right after I tear that stupid mask off his face and barf into it. The forest around them seemed brighter, white light glimmering through gaps in the timber. Claire thought she heard the throb of helicopter rotor. Well, that didn't take long, thank God. Where exactly are we, anyway?
To her surprise, however, Mr. Death eased off the accelerator. He reached over and plucked the radio from Claire's lap. "White Division 38, this is Special Operative Hunk. Can you confirm your position, over?"
"Affirmative, coordinates 104.50'42.0 by 39.24'46.8."
Claire felt rather than saw Mr. Death frown. He glanced at the GPS mounted on the dash. "We don't have time for this," he muttered, tossing the radio back to Claire. The Jeep slowed considerably as he reached for the gearshift. Claire opened her mouth to ask what was wrong, only to snap it shut as a blaze of hot white light suddenly flooded the Jeep.
"Freeze! Exit the vehicle with both hands in the air. Any sudden movements and we'll open fire!" The voice was magnified through a bullhorn, harsh and grating. Claire shot Mr. Death a startled look, both hands on the vinyl dashboard of the Jeep. The helicopter sounded like it was right overhead. What the hell is this now?
"Exit the vehicle with your hands in the air!"
Mr. Death slowly reached for his seatbelt. "You heard them, Red," he sighed, popping the door of the Jeep. Claire bewilderedly got out to stand beside the vehicle, arms above her head. Rotor wash from the helicopter flung chips of ice into her face, the pines on either side of the road whipping back and forth. Claire squinted into the floodlight. As her eyes made the painful adjustment, she saw several vehicles and a line of soldiers dressed in full combat fatigues. All of them were carrying automatic weapons, but none of them looked Umbrella.
"All traffic in and out of Harvardville has been restricted," the bullhorn continued. Three of the soldiers cautiously began walking towards them. "You with the gasmask – identify yourself and your business."
Claire snuck a glance at Mr. Death and had to stifle a nervous snort. Arms up and akimbo, his would-be casual stance did little except advertise the fact that he was bristling with weapons. Would you please remove any metallic items you may be carrying: keys, loose change? The parallel was almost too comedic for words.
"Umbrella Corp. Special Forces, codename HUNK. Operating number UC-421," Mr. Death replied. His tone was mild, but there was a hard edge to it, indicating that he was only being professionally polite. He cocked his head slightly to watch the two soldiers break apart to flank him. "My business is rather obvious," he added.
Claire watched one of the men hand over a bullhorn before walking out to meet them. He was middle-aged, with a hard, downturned mouth that looked as though it were only capable of two expressions: a priggish smirk or a near-constant frown. A cluster of medals glinted on one side of his parka. "So you would think," he said, eying them suspiciously, "but as I understand it, the containment unit is being deployed fifteen miles to the west. What are you doing leaving the quarantine area?"
"Bad traffic," Mr. Death answered blithely.
The man's eyes narrowed. "You don't impress me, Mr. Hunk," he snapped. "This is a military barricade and you've just been found exiting a confirmed hot zone without prior clearance." He sent Claire a scathing glance. "What's your codename, the She-Hunk?"
"Claire Redfield," she answered coolly. One of the soldiers had circled around her to peer inside the Jeep, zeroing in on both the revolver she'd left on the seat and the TMP slung over the driver's headrest. Nothing suspicious here, officer, Claire thought without humor. She repressed the growing urge to shiver, her hair thrashing wildly in the turbulence. The air was absolutely freezing and she was in no mood to watch while some kind of bureaucratic pissing-contest got into full swing.
"They check out, Captain Hammerson," a soldier called, leaning out of his Humvee. "Both names register under Umbrella."
"Mmm-hmm. Let me see that, would you, son?"
The captain reached over his shoulder to take the heavy, rubberized tablet being offered to him. After another contemptuous glare, his eyes flicked down to read whatever was on the screen. Claire resisted the urge to sigh or complain, and/or punch someone in the face. She carefully peeled tendrils of hair out of her mouth. This is ridiculous. A dozen roads in this godforsaken county and we had to pick this one. Meanwhile, Harvardville's in flames and this guy wants to check credentials.
"Sure you don't wanna check our fingerprints, too?" she asked sourly.
Captain Hammerson's flinty blue eyes snapped up to meet her face. At almost exactly the same time, the radio lying on Claire's seat let out a squelch. "Lifestar 1, White Command 38. We are now in the air and are en route. Have dispatch confirm the landing coordinates and make sure they're prepped for evacuation, over."
"White Command 38 copies. Coordinates 104.51'44.1 by 39.24'49.7."
"Lifestar 1 confirms."
"White Command 38, this is Lifestar 2. Coordinates acknowledged and pre-flight check in progress. Do we have details on the number and condition of evacuees, over?"
"Affirmative. 200 to 325 with minor injuries and illness. Lifestar 3 is cleared for critical, over."
The message was echoed by several radios in the nearby Humvees. With an expression bordering on apocalyptic, Captain Hammerson stormed back to one of the vehicles and leaned in to grab the radio. "White Command 38, this is Captain Hammerson: 106th Brigade, Fort Carson Colorado. You do not have clearance to be in the air," he said loudly. "I repeat, you are not cleared for air traffic at this time, over."
"Negative. The current LZ is under the jurisdiction of the Corporation and has been pre-authorized for all necessary evacuation and biological-containment protocols under the Raccoon City Act."
The unspoken implication went something along the lines of, "Check the handbook next time." Hammerson gnashed his teeth. "Limp-dicked bureaucrats… We'll just see about that," he growled. Mr. Death started to drop his arms. "If we're done here, I have important places to be – as should be obvious," he said, indicating that the interview was over. Claire silently cheered.
"Don't move!" Captain Hammerson barked, coming back around the Humvee. "I'm placing the both of you under arrest."
Claire's jaw dropped. "Wait, what? Whatever the hell for?" she demanded.
Hammerson's eyes were hard, but a smirk twitched at the corners of his mouth. "We received an anonymous tip earlier, concerning the fact that the Umbrella Corporation is in fact responsible for the current outbreak."
"That- that's ridiculous! You're out of your mind!" Claire exploded, appalled. One of the soldiers had circled around behind her and was attempting to take hold of her wrists. Claire angrily jerked them out of his grasp. "Hey, wait- no! Get your hands off me!" The solider grabbed her again, fingers jammed into her shoulders.
"An anonymous tip?" Mr. Death's voice was cold. "That's your evidence?"
"The brass was willing to give things the benefit of the doubt," Hammerson returned, although his voice seemed to indicate the exact opposite. "But then I ran into the leader of Umbrella's private little Gestapo – at least that was the only part of your file that hasn't been redacted to hell – and you, Dr. Redfield. European VIP branch, according to this." He rapped the tablet with the back of his hand. "Moreover, the both of you were found trying to exit a restricted area before official containment units were even en route."
Hammerson's smug expression finally manifested in full. "That's all the evidence I need, Mr. Hunk."
Claire felt sick and light-headed as her sleeves were forced up and plastic zip-cuffs were tightened around her wrists. This can't be happening. European VIP? What the hell am I even doing in the computers? Wesker must've modified the records. Oh, God, this is crazy! We didn't do anything! The allegations were horribly damning, however, as if every insane, circumstantial piece of evidence had decided to point the finger. Claire desperately tried to think of a way to explain things, starting with Chris and the hospital, and how Mr. Death had been sent as her personal bodyguard, but the suicidal priests made everything sound ridiculous no matter how she tried to word it.
"Put them in separate vehicles," Hammerson ordered.
Hands closed around Claire's upper arms and pushed her towards the barricade. She shot a desperate glance at Mr. Death, hoping that he'd pull some kind of stunt à la the Matrix and put a stop to the insanity. For a moment, he looked as though he might try, but that moment passed without incident. It might have had something to do with the four or five automatic rifles suggesting that he keep both arms in the air.
Overwhelmed by an illogical rush of disappointment, Claire's knees collided with the icy side of a Humvee as a solider swept both hands up and down her legs, checking her pockets, the long shanks of her boots. Handcuffed and divested of everything he'd been carrying, mask and helmet included, Mr. Death was shoved into the Humvee directly opposite her. Hammerson gleefully swung the door shut, and Claire was forced to duck her head she was bundled her into the back of another vehicle. The warm interior smelled strongly of boot polish. It clearly hadn't seen a day of hard service in its life, government dollars wisely spent looking good in a warehouse.
Claire buried her teeth in her bottom lip and resisted the helpless urge to start yelling, a twitch that manifested by drumming the heel of her boot on the floor. In an unconscious flash of treachery, she wondered if Umbrella did have something to do with the outbreak. After all, Wesker had only been in town for a couple of hours before… No. Claire fiercely shook her head. There's another explanation for this. Somebody wants this to happen, so maybe it's the priests, or whoever left Captain Hammerson's convenient little "tip". Aware of a horrid new possibility, Claire couldn't repress a sudden, blistering flash of anger.
Chris, I swear… if you have anything at all to do with this, you and I are done for real.
Chris imagined this is what it felt like to be a drug addict. Furious and twitchy, he attempted to sit down in the corner of the nurse's station, leaving the empty shotgun propped against the desk. The hallway was teeming with people hurrying back and forth, coughing, sobbing, yelling – pretty much every vocalization available to mankind. Chris pinched the bridge of his nose, attempting to stave off an oncoming headache. After resisting for as long as he possibly could, he'd given up and taken a shuddering drink from the water fountain, but his mouth still felt like cotton and now he had to piss like nobody's business. He wished he could just find a dark corner somewhere and lie down, but the thought disgusted him even more then the water.
Chris shot another dark look down the corridor. He couldn't see it from here, but he knew they were down there, trying their damndest to pound their way out of the ICU. He wondered how many there were. He wondered how long those doors would hold. More often then not, Chris found himself straining to hear the noise of breaking glass. If they break out, these people are going to stampede, he thought, glowering. It's too cramped, and there's nowhere to run besides. I should be trying to get out of here!
But there was nowhere to go. He'd taken a look through one of the windows and saw nothing but darkness and blowing snow. The TV in the corner had been broadcasting spastic reports from across the city, but all they did was confirm what everybody already knew. Harvardville had gone to hell. Twenty minutes later, somebody had turned the television off and Chris had been grateful for it, at least for a while. His craving for a cigarette was driving him mad, and it put him in such a bad mood that he didn't notice he wasn't alone anymore until a voice spoke at his elbow.
"You jonesing for something, big guy?"
Chris jumped, startled. Karen, the blonde cop from before, was leaning against the desk. He scowled at her. "What's it to you? I'm not lookin' for a friend," he growled. Rather than take the hint and leave, however, Karen lowered herself to sit on the floor – all 5 feet, 4 inches of her. In spite of himself, Chris looked her over again. She had a pretty, heart-shaped face with big blue eyes totally at odds with her choice of career. Reminded sharply of somebody else, Chris looked away.
"Well, maybe you need a friend," said Karen, holding something out to him. A can of grape soda. Chris' first impulse was to refuse, but he really wanted something to drink, too. After a moment, he reached out and took the can with a scowl, stifling a groan the moment he touched its deliciously cold surface. It must have been fresh from the vending machine. The old warning about Greeks bearing gifts flashed through Chris' head, but he cracked the tab with relish and drank most of it in one go. "Thanks," he muttered.
"Not a problem," said Karen, opening a can of Coke. They sat together in complete silence. Karen didn't try to start up a conversation and Chris certainly didn't want one. He guzzled another mouthful of soda and pressed the icy can to the side of his head, covering both the ache in his temple and the one in his swollen jaw. Karen gave him an inquisitive look.
"Shut up," Chris grumbled.
"Didn't say anything."
Somewhere down a hall, a baby began to screech and Chris pressed his eyes shut, wondering where he could get more ammo for the shotgun. I've gotta get my hands on something. There's no way I'm gonna get caught with my thumb up my ass. Beside him on the floor, Karen's hi-band let out a squelch.
Lifestar 1, Harvardville Memorial. We are on final approach, ETA 5 minutes.
Chris opened his eyes to mere slits. A medevac chopper? That can't be right. Is he planning on getting out of here? The radio keyed up again, broadcasting a familiar voice. Albert Wesker, Lifestar 1. Please acknowledge that the LZ is still being prepped, over. Decisive and professional. Chris hated the sound of it.
Lifestar 1 confirms. We'll circle until landing authorization is received.
Chris was unpleasantly reminded of the dozens of times STARS had been required to land a helicopter. Deployed primarily as a Search and Rescue unit, they'd been in every kind of terrain the district had to offer, from granite mountain cliffs to dense, wooded areas where you'd be lucky to fit your own ass, let alone a helicopter. Brad was a complete pussy, Chris reflected, but damn could he fly. He could get our bird into a canyon with 30 mile-an-hour winds without even tapping the skids.
His thoughts were interrupted by the overhead PA system and an order for the first group to prepare for evac. Karen got up from the floor – obviously responding to her cue – and Chris scrambled to his feet after her. He hadn't realized it until now, but an evacuation had been the last thing he'd been expecting. It felt too normal, too by the book, and he didn't trust it for that reason alone. He headed up the stairwell without asking for permission, pausing just long enough to grab a spare emergency blanket, not seeing anything else he could use. Probably full of T-virus. Or AIDS.
A gust a wind nearly ripped the door from his hand. Jesus Christ, it's cold, thought Chris, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders. A miniature Deere was plowing back and forth on the helipad, exposing asphalt that was black and icy in the glare of the floodlights. Chris suppressed a rush of malicious triumph. Guess who got those back on for ya.
Wesker was clearly visible at the end of the tarmac, his heavy leather coat hanging motionless despite the wind. Shivering a little, Chris hunched his massive shoulders, partially in response to the cold and partially out of a desire to remain unnoticed. Shuffling to the edge of the roof, he peered out over the city. From his rooftop vantage point, he should have been able to see most of Harvardville, but there was nothing out there but darkness and the harsh, unreal glow of fire. The helipad felt like it was floating. Chris backed away from the edge just as someone cut the Deere's engine, dropping the helipad into eerie silence. Chris thought he heard the throb of a helicopter somewhere above.
Bright orange strobes suddenly flashed into existence at the corners of the helipad. Chris' eyes slid back to Wesker. "Albert Wesker, Lifestar 1. You are cleared for landing," the blond radioed. "Wind is gusting from the northeast, recommend approach from the 7 o'clock position, over."
Chris hastily moved away from the helipad and took shelter in the doorway. His feet felt like ice and the itchy flannel blanket was hardly adequate, but he forced himself to remain and watch. He couldn't shake the crazy notion that it was all some kind of ploy, that the helicopter wasn't a medevac at all, but a lushly appointed Umbrella Black Hawk come to collect a certain sonuvabitch. The sound of rotors was getting closer. Chris shielded his eyes against the increasing turbulence, the snow making it difficult to determine the full magnitude of what was descending towards the helipad, but soon it was impossible to hide.
"Holy shit", Chris muttered. The twin-rotor Chinook was painted orange with white trim, massive landing gear, high-strength floodlights, and roughly the size of an eighteen-wheeler truck. If not for the Umbrella logo and the words Lifestar One splashed across its side, it wouldn't have looked out of place in a warzone. In a blast of snow and ice, the behemoth angled towards the helipad and touched down with a thump that was lost in the thundering beat of the rotors. After a long moment, the blades stilled and a ramp was lowered to the tarmac, disgorging several technicians in bright orange flight suits.
The helipad was suddenly swarming with activity. Chris was suddenly engulfed by a flood of people coming up the stairwell, all of them wrapped in some kind of warm clothing and shepherded by groups of doctors. Peeled out of the doorway like a bad sunburn, Chris did his best to get out of their way. Guess this really is an evac, he thought, feeling rather stupid. The people hurrying past him were as pale as ghosts, with many of them sporting obvious signs of illness or injury. For the first time all evening, Chris felt grudging twinge of sympathy. Nobody should have to put up with this shit.
"Of course you'd be up here. Wasn't one near-death experience good enough for you?" Chris looked up he see Jill sidling through the crowd, glaring daggers at him. "Figured you'd add hypothermia and frostbite to the list? I should've let him handcuff you to a door."
Chris shot her a dirty look and didn't respond. Jill was wearing her favorite scuffed parka and Chris was left to assume that she'd brought it along that night when she and his two-timing sister had dragged him here. Reminded of the fact, he decided to ignore her as if she didn't exist, going back to watching the Chinook. That monster's built to carry troops. It'll fit thirty or forty people, at least, he concluded, trying to estimate how many trips it was going to take to evacuate the entire hospital, and wondering again why Wesker insisted on bothering. Saving innocent civvies just didn't seem like it would be his top priority. Unless the outbreak really was an accident and he's trying to keep casualties to a minimum by playing the hero. Who the hell knows? There could be six labs in the basement, for all I know, and we definitely don't want anybody finding that copper crest.
It occurred to Chris that he should have been able to laugh at how ludicrous that sounded, but he couldn't. And he didn't, especially not with that familiar silhouette making its way towards them, perpetual sunglasses propped on his tanned brow. "I want the both of you onboard," said Wesker without any preamble. "Go."
Taken aback by such an unexpected statement, it was a moment before Chris found his voice. He let out a short, barking laugh. "You're high if you think I'm going anywhere I can't see you," he said, aware of the irony such an announcement implied. "You think I'm just gonna let you do a little housecleaning before you slither away again? Fuck you."
Wesker's jaw tightened, but before he could say anything, Jill suddenly spoke up. "I'm not leaving, either," she told him, her voice quiet but firm. Chris glanced sidelong at her and saw the crease between her eyes, signifying that something had disturbed her and she was trying hard to figure out what. Triumphant in the fact that she'd finally taken his side, however, Chris leveled his gaze back to Wesker, his expression almost gloating. The radio in Wesker's hand crackled. Dust-off in four minutes. Please clear the LZ.
For a moment there was a tense-standoff, and then Wesker turned away. Chris and Jill retreated to the safety of the doorway, and were joined shortly afterward by the crew on the helipad. Chris briefly thought of asking Jay for a cigarette but he changed his mind as the Chinook fired up its engines. In moments it was airborne. Lifestar 1, White Command 38, the pilot radioed. We've cleared the LZ, over.
Copy that, Lifestar 1. Lifestar 2 is on approach.
After his initial shock that there was more than one of the flying behemoths, Chris lost track of time. With little else to occupy his thoughts, his entire world eclipsed to the steady flow of evacuees being ferried off the helipad, all of it sticking to a tight schedule of less than thirty minutes from touchdown to takeoff, with a ten to fifteen minute buffer before the next Chinook arrived over the hospital. It was like watching the cogs in a well-oiled machine. After what seemed like, eternity, however, they received a call over the radio. Hospital evacuated; one final evacuation copter en route. Against all common sense, however, Chris wasn't reassured by the news.
For the umpteenth time in the last ten minutes alone, he looked sideways at Wesker, expecting each and every time for the man to just "disappear". When he didn't, it felt like the sun not coming up or Jill actually knowing how to cook – things that simply did not happen. It didn't reassure Chris in the slightest. As time passed he just got more nervous, even as the helicopter's twinkling light appeared on the horizon. That's it? Where's the Tyrant? Where's the self-destruct system screaming in my ear? When's Wesker going to draw a gun, wave it in our faces, and laugh?
Chris rolled his neck to loosen the vertebrae, hearing them crackle like uncooked spaghetti. Unable to shake the absurd feeling of a fuse inching closing to some invisible barrel of gunpowder, he still didn't want to get on the chopper. We'll just be going from one Umbrella hellhole to another, probably a shiny new funhouse where this bastard can shove me in a tank and poke me with needles.
Chris looked down at the puffy veins on the underside of his arm, rubbing at them absently. It distantly occurred to him that maybe they had nothing to do with Wesker, and that'd he'd finally smoked himself straight into lung cancer, but he dismissed the thought before it fully formed. The helicopter was almost overhead, the sound of its rotors much more subdued than the Chinooks. Cold and frustrated, Chris huddled under his blanket with a scowl. Another minute and the helicopter became somewhat visible, a black blot against an even blacker sky. Chris squinted, trying to determine the model. Whatever it was, it certainly wasn't a Chinook. Maybe a Huey or a Bell-407.
Guess we don't get to play with the big toy, thought Chris, musing about the swap. Probably just didn't want to waste the gas sending one of those giant-ass things back out here to pick up five people. As the helicopter circled, nosing into the wind, Wesker lifted the radio to his mouth. "Byrd, Renault, helicopter is on approach. Five minutes or less."
The radio crackled an affirmative. Karen and Jay were downstairs, combing the second and third floors for anybody that'd been missed. Chris wondered what came next. How would the great and mighty Umbrella deal with a hospital chock-full of zombies, not counting the rest of the city? Whatever it was, he assumed it would include armed mercs. Chris thought again of his sister. Maybe she's already wherever we're going, he thought darkly.
The helicopter turned on its floodlight–
–and exploded in a thunderclap of fire.
The tail-rotor burst apart with a screech, hurling shrapnel and fine, glowing sparks as the helicopter yawed wildly to the side, flung into a helpless 180-degree spin. "DOWN!" Wesker roared.
Chris reacted without thinking. He threw himself to the ground just as the copter pitched towards the roof, blades thundering with enough velocity to slice a man in half. Scalding wind buffeted Chris' back as he lay prone in the snow, waiting to die. The helicopter was almost on its side, tilted rotors gouging into the elevated helipad. They tore off with a hair-raising shriek and the entire craft went skidding, tumbling over and over until it slammed into the concrete bulwark at the edge of the roof. Chris felt the earth-shaking vibration all the way through his chest.
The utter silence that followed was eerie. Ears ringing, Chris picked his head up to stare at the flaming debris. The helicopter's main body was unrecognizable, twisted from the violence of the crash. Greasy black smoke boiled out of the wreckage and the stench of burning gasoline seared the back of Chris' throat. He didn't even bother to wonder if the pilot had survived. He coughed and pulled himself to his knees. "Jill…"
"I'm okay."
There was movement directly to his right as Wesker stood up. From Jill's tangled position, both arms flung out, it looked to Chris as though Wesker had seized her by the coat and actually flung her down, but he couldn't figure out what that meant right now. He crawled through the slush and took hold of her arm.
"You sure?"
She nodded, too rattled to speak, and Chris tugged her to her feet. His t-shirt was wet from where he'd been lying in the snow, his elbows sporting a couple of painful scrapes. He opened to mouth to demand what'd happened, but then he noticed it, a trail of smoke arcing over the roof like an accusing finger. Wesker had seen it, too, at almost exactly at the same time. He pelted to the edge of the roof, tearing his sunglasses off his face. Chris followed at his heels. Staring into the darkness, he immediately noticed a shape on the opposite building. Even at fifty yards it cut a tall profile, seven to eight feet at the very least, and built like truck. The unmistakable contour of a rocket-launcher was propped on one shoulder.
Chris' stomach jerked against his spine. "What… the fuck?"
The thing moved suddenly, leaping forty feet from the roof to the ground. It accelerated across the snow-covered parking lot like a semi getting up to speed. Chris imagined he could hear its heavy, thudding footfalls as it mounted the curb and slammed through the front doors of the hospital, leading with its shoulder. Without thinking, Chris flattened both hands on the wall and leaned over, trying desperately to see where the thing had gone. Wesker's gloved hand came down on his shoulder like a flaming brand.
"We have to go," he barked, with voice harsh with new urgency. "Move, the both of you!"
Tugged backwards, Chris was unable to suppress a yelp. Even after Wesker had let go of his shoulder, the feeling of his grip remained, as though each finger had left its own bruise. Heart pounding, Chris broke into a run, stumbling and sliding over the uneven snow. Wesker had already spun Jill towards the stairwell and for once Chris didn't bother to argue or complain. That thing was in the hospital and it was coming for them, of that he was certain. They pounded down the stairwell, but Chris brought them all to a sudden halt with one hand fisted in Wesker's sleeve.
"Wait!" he shouted, grabbing the radio. "Karen, Jay! The helicopter is down! I repeat, the helicopter is down and there's something big heading up from below! Get the hell out!"
There was no reply, only a haze of white static.
Chris held the button down again. "Karen–"
"Fuck, Redfield, MOVE!" Wesker snarled, shoving him forward. The door to the third floor was slightly ajar, a bloody arm protruding through the gap. The stink of rotten flesh and excrement hit Chris like a pillowcase of bricks, leaving him gagging. There was only one way that was possible. Somewhere in the darkness of the ICU, the barricade had finally come down. Driven by survival instinct, Chris didn't even bother to slow as they hurtled down the next flight of stairs, passing the second floor. He fully expected the Thing to be waiting for them on the first floor, but as they burst out into the dimly lit hall, Chris didn't see a single thing. Wesker veered right and they hit the Employee Entrance at a full sprint, slamming the doors open.
Suddenly they were outside, running across the snow and into darkness.
Chris didn't know what was worse.
AN: Bwahaha! As far as good 'ol Resident Evil is concerned, rocket launchers are good for only two things: taking out the final boss and trashing our ride out of the city. Hope you enjoyed your second serving of survival/horror, my peeps. If any of you live in Colorado, sound off if you're within 100 miles of the coordinates featured in this chapter! Use Google Earth to find out.
A great big THANK YOU to everyone for reading, reviewing, and generally hanging in there. Don't forget to check out my DA gallery for some new art!