Chapter 3: Fucking Run
(MAT)
Everything was red and orange. The early morning sky. Mat's vision. The flames encircling him and the Umbrella monster. It cast everything in a hellish glow, which seemed fitting to Mat, since he felt like he was in hell himself.
He saw Billy retreating into the distance. He found himself hating the man less and less, his emotions tied to how much he was around the former marine. Now he actually hoped the other man got away, because he genuinely didn't want him dead, not just because it meant there'd be someone to look out for Rebecca.
Rebecca was another kettle of fish, an emotional thicket which had already dulled his proverbial machete. He didn't know quite what to think of her anymore. She was definitely his friend, he definitely cared about her, but did he really feel more than that, or was it just constant adrenaline coupled by the fact that they'd both almost died several times in the last twenty-four hours that had pushed him to kiss her? He wasn't sure, but he did know it had been a mistake. It had been selfish of him to do that to Rebecca, especially since he was about to die himself. No need to add extra grief to her already traumatized life…
The monster, the one the enemy soldiers had called Nemesis, began to stalk toward him, apparently convinced Billy was out of its range. Or, as Mat had told Rebecca, it wasn't concerned with any other survivors; just those who'd been in the mansion back in July.
The monster stomped past the crumpled and burning armored truck Billy had dropped on it, the words KNIGHT GUARDS, behind an armored raccoon with an impudent grin wielding a broad sword, still visible on the twisted metal. The thing had had a vehicle weighing at least a ton (probably more, since Mat sucked at estimation) dropped squarely on top of it, but kept coming. Mat had to wonder if anything could kill the beast.
The monster raised a huge weapon with one hand, a minigun at least three feet long with eight separate barrels arranged on something akin to a merry-go-round of death. Slowly the creature wrapped its other, corpse-like paw around a carrying handle at the top of the weapon, the barrels beginning to spin.
"STARS" the thing growled, its voice a deep, throaty bass.
Damn thing doesn't even know who I am Mat realized numbly, watching the creature level the weapon. Maybe Umbrella had just programmed the thing to chant the affiliation of its primary targets. Maybe the company itself didn't know he was with SWAT. Or maybe the Nemesis was just stupid. In any case, it didn't matter to Mat, since he knew he was about to be dead.
Then something caused his legs to spontaneously give out, and Mat found himself flat on his back. Less than a second later, the minigun, with a roar akin to somebody tearing God's bed sheets, ripped through the space he'd just vacated. The Nemesis growled angrily and started making its way toward him, the minigun still spinning.
A thought suddenly appeared in Mat's head, shocking for its abruptness and content. Are you out of your mind? Fucking run!
Mat looked down at his belt. It was the same web gear he carried when he was in a SWAT operation, so it included a host of things most normal cops lacked, such as a knife sheath…or three flash-bang grenades in their pastel blue duct-tape wrappers.
Mat pulled one without thinking, hooking his thumb into the pin and jerking it free, before lobbing it one handed at the advancing Tyrant. The beast ignored the grenade as it rolled forward…then let out a surprised howl when it went off, a loud bang and a brilliant flash that left it blind and stunned.
Mat jumped to his feet, the monster less than ten feet away, stumbling at little, the minigun still spinning. He had the perfect shot at the dazed Tyrant, which couldn't defend itself, but didn't fire. He remembered how much punishment the other Tyrant had taken, how this one had survived having an armored car dropped on it, and decided his best course of action would be to…fucking run.
He turned and sprinted down a side alley. He heard an angry roar from behind and the rapid stamp of the creature's huge boots as it pursued him into the tight space. He needed to slow the thing down, and do it quickly…
He found his answer a moment later: a dull red barrel sitting in a half open garage. Quickly Mat grabbed the container, shoved it onto its side, and kicked it forward, back down the alley. Then he drew his Colt and followed it. This was going to be tricky, but if it didn't work, he was probably screwed anyway.
The Nemesis ignored the barrel right up until Mat shot it, the gas inside going up like a roman candle. The monster staggered back as burning fuel splashed across its face, taking one hand off its minigun to rub at its singed face. The weapon itself caught fire, the already hot metal melting together. With an infuriated bellow, it threw the useless Gatling gun away and rushed forward. But Mat was already gone.
He ducked back under the door, dashing frantically through the garage and into the tiny office with its ancient vending machines and old copies of National Geographic, the same everywhere in the US. He heard the sound of something ripping through the garage door, followed by an angry bellow and rapid, huge thumping footsteps.
He spotted his exit, a large window with the garage's name mirrored on it in peeling yellow stickers. He knew jumping through the large window would hurt, knew he'd have to shoot it out, knew he was going to need to hoard his 5.7mm ammo, and dropped the P90, its strap catching the PDW at his waist, the small submachine gun thumping against his legs as he drew the Colt and fired four times into the glass, the .45 finally making enough cracks to shatter. He didn't even slow down, leaping into the cascade of falling glass dust which sprinkled to the sidewalk like snow. He rolled, feeling the glass fragments crunch on his shoulder, grateful he still had on his jacket since otherwise the shards would've filleted him, then was back on his feet, holstering his Colt and switching back to the P90, still not loosing any of his steam as he sprinted down the street.
He kept running down the block, his ears alert for the noise of the hideous beast following him, but after a few moments of near silence, he let out a mental sight of relief and slowed down a little, his breath coming more raggedly.
Then, Mat heard a noise from inside the building next to him, a brick and mortar establishment with a large sign reading HIDEKI OTOMO FOR US SENATE. Mat remembered Otomo's campaign, mainly because he was a bleeding heart libertarian of the loud variety, and because many of his posters informed the world he was running for U..S. Senate. Mat suspected, if he was going to elect a representative to his nation's chief legislative body, he wanted it to be someone who could actually spell that nation's name, or at least abbreviate it correctly.
Mat's displeasure with Otomo's spelling issues were a moot point, though, because, as if guided by some malevolent sixth sense, the Nemesis monster plowed through the wall, bellowing like a demon the only word it seemed to know. Mat ordinarily wouldn't have been inclined to be picky, since most Umbrella monsters couldn't speak at all (except Marcus, who by Rebecca's account couldn't be made to shut up), but all the same, the whole "STARS" bit was getting kind of old, especially since it wasn't quite the catch-all whoever the Nemesis's speech-therapist had been seemed to think it was.
"Holy shit!" Mat exclaimed, raising the P90 and firing a burst into the monster's face, his bullets actually causing the thing to stumble, if only a little. Then, with a bellow that seemed, if anything, even more furious, the monster charged, its huge paws balled into tight, basketball-sized fists.
Mat turned and ran again, trying to get as far from this Hulk Hogan-sized bloodhound. When he'd originally decided to lead it away from the others, force it to choose who it wanted to kill more, himself or Rebecca, he'd anticipated being able to shake the monster off at some point. Rapidly it was becoming apparent he'd have to man up and kill the thing, and soon, before it tired him out.
He ran into the street, sliding across the hood of a Ford Taurus like something from the Dukes of Hazard, the seat of his pants making a rather obscene squeaking noise as he did so. The Nemesis was hot on his heels, shoving the sedan aside in its fervor to get at him. He heard the car's front end crunch as the monster flipped it over, bellowing loudly as it charged. Mat didn't even slow down, knowing he wouldn't get away if he stopped for a few more potshots. Instead, he kept going, clutching his PDW to his chest like a linebacker at the Super Bowl.
He rounded a corner…and froze, his eyes going wide at the sight of literal wall-to-wall zombies all crowded into the gap. Slowly, stupidly, the infected turned their shark-eyed stares in his direction, a few at the front moaning, their cries seeming to egg the others forward. Mat clicked his weapon over to semi-auto, prepared to take aim…and realized there was no way he'd be able to shoot his way through this mess.
Instead, he tried another approach. Head down, arms tucked in at his sides, elbows slightly out, he rushed forward, running straight at the crowd like a charging rhino.
The infected seemed genuinely surprised to have food so readily rush into their midst, cold, dead hands reaching for him, trying to pull him into gaping, waiting mouths. Mat kept going though, careful to maintain his speed, shoving infected aside. Soon he was inside the mob, feeling as if he'd been squeezed into a rotten, festering JELL-O mold. Still, he was making good time, and for a moment he thought he might actually make it.
Then, he lost his balance, staggering forward in something approximating a drunken hop, hands splayed to catch himself, only there wasn't anything to catch himself on, and Mat rolled to the street, his momentum carrying him into the confusing mass of debilitated and rapidly decaying legs of the mob.
Mat kept rolling on his side, trying to keep himself going, trying to stay one step ahead of the drunken, numb fingers reaching for him, the wide glazed eyes set into face which lean forward, looking almost puzzled, curious at the young man rolling on the ground amongst them.
He kept going right up until his shoulder hit the bottom step of an apartment building, the infected forming a small ring around him. Realizing he had nowhere else to go, Mat rolled onto his back and, using his elbows, began to crawl up the steps like a crab. With one hand he reached down and pulled out the Colt, shooting the nearest zombie in the head, splattering its brain matter on the three infected standing just behind it. They flinched back a little, blood and pinkish-gray flesh slapping against their faces like paint. Mat shifted his aim and fired again, putting down a second zombie, this one an older woman, who simply dropped like a puppet whose strings had been cut, the others stepping over her suddenly still body, their feet quickly becoming stained with her blood.
Mat shot a third zombie, who fell back, stricken, on his fellows, his glazed, dilated eyes seemingly focused on the new hole that had just appeared in his forehead. The others ignored the newly stilled corpse, their continued momentum pushing it forward, where it landed at Mat's feet.
Mat tried to fire again, but his weapon simply clicked at him. He looked in horror at the slide, locked back, the barrel and gas tube sticking out like a tongue, as if the weapon was being impudent, although Mat wasn't sure who that was directed at: himself or the zombies.
He dropped the empty magazine onto the steps, frantically patting at his belt for a spare. He found two Browning mags for the HP he gave to Maddie a few hours earlier, then had to give up his search to kick out at a zombie that simply lunged forward, mouth gaping wide to take a bite out of Mat, apparently not choosey as to what part of him it devoured first.
Mat planted his foot on the thing's chest, propelling it through the air, sending it flying, arms spread, like a child playing airplane. With a loud crunch it struck the big oaken doors of the apartment, wood splintering as the impact forced them open.
"That'll work" Mat said as he scrambled to his feet. He paused to kick a zombie down the steps, dropping the infected into what was quickly becoming a mosh-pit. He could see the Nemesis, wading head and shoulders above the crowd, like a beleaguered parent come to claim their children at the ball pit. Except, most parents didn't snap the necks of any children who got in their way with their bare hands.
Mat shoved a new magazine into the Colt, flicking his wrist to unlock the slide. Then he holstered the pistol, readied the P90, turned, and ran back into the apartment building, desperate to get as far away as he possibly could.
He kicked open a dark green metal door at the back, which had been hanging slightly ajar, waving in the light breeze on its rusty hinges. Mat thought about activating the P90's flashlight, but chose otherwise. The light would just give away his position, as well as ruining his night vision.
He sprinted down the alley, careful to watch any especially dark shadows for any infected possibly lurking within. Then, he heard a sound he never wanted to again, a sound he'd last heard in the tunnels beneath the mansion: a rapid drumming, like the sound of someone rapping the tips of their fingers on a hard surface. Except Mat knew the sound couldn't be someone's hand, because people's hands weren't big enough to make that much noise, and because most people's hands didn't have eight digits.
The Web Spinner, the name Rebecca said Umbrella had given to its giant spider series of BOW, was just as big as Mat remembered the one underneath the mansion being. This one was a little hairier, though, its legs longer and segmented. It had big, orange patters on its huge abdomen, which got larger the farther away from the center they got. Orange-tinted hair clung to its legs as well.
Mat remembered the monster from beneath the mansion, remembered what a massive pain to kill it had been, and decided he wouldn't be having any of it this time. As the monster bug reared up on its four rear legs, the two front most raised up in what looked like a fighting stance, Mat spun around and kicked it as hard as he could, his boot striking its head and flipping the spider onto its back. It lay there, its eight hair legs flailing wildly as it tried to right itself.
Mat raised his foot again and brought it down on the monster's abdomen. The huge, pus-filled sack exploded like a giant, pudding-filled balloon, sticky gore splashing the legs of Mat's blue RPD cargo pants. He let out a disgusted grunt, yanking his foot free, just as almost three-dozen little spiders (little being a relative term, since the new monsters were about the size of his fist) scattered from their mortally wounded parent. Mat ignored them, continuing his trek down the alley, feeling a few of the juvenile spiders' bodies pop under his boots.
He heard a roar from somewhere behind him, and knew the Nemesis was gaining on him, its heavy footfalls getting closer and closer. He could see the street ahead, looking relatively clear, and put on another burst of speed, his sides aching from exertion. Maybe if he could get out of this alley, he could ditch this thing…
The zombie caught him by surprise. It was as if the thing was waiting for him, just outside the edge of the alley. Without warning it lurched out, grabbing Mat's shoulders, rearing its head back to take a bite of his neck, its mouth open wide.
Mat reacted immediately, adrenaline fueling his actions. He slammed his elbow into the thing's throat, causing to gurgle for a moment in confusion, then slapped its wrist, causing it to let go of his shoulders. Mat grabbed a handful of the infected man's bushy, yellow-grey hair, and shoved him face first into the brick wall, then grabbed the man's shirt and propelled him down the alley, into the path of the Nemesis.
The zombie collided with the slightly more mobile version of the brick wall it had encountered earlier, and moaned piteously, some sixth sense apparently telling it the Tyrant wasn't good to eat. It started to turn around, but the Nemesis flattened it with a mighty swing of its tree trunk like arms, slamming the infected into the close walls of the alley, its head splattering open, blood dripping down the much stained bricks.
Mat turned and ran back down the street. There were a few other solitary infected stumbling around, most giving him the wide-eyed look of stoned-confusion, the same stare he'd seen on sharks in an aquarium. He brushed past them all, hearing the Nemesis tear down the street after him, shoving infected aside if they even seemed to think of getting in its way.
Ahead Mat saw a stack of 2x4's, whose purpose he couldn't fathom, but whose presence allowed him the chance of vaulting onto a second floor fire escape located just above. Maybe if he could get off the street, the thing would eventually give up.
Mat ran full-tilt, his head down, arms pumping at his sides. He reached the wood, nimbly leapt up, and was jumping again, the fire escape just within reach, when the wood below him shifted and he found himself falling back down, the fire escape pulling away.
Then a hand reached down and grabbed his wrist, and Mat found himself hanging suspended in midair, staring into the face of the last person he expected to find.
"Hang on!" Brad Vickers shouted, trying to pull Mat up onto the balcony, but not quite possessing the arm strength to do so. Mat ended up helping himself out, grabbing bars and working his way up.
"Thanks" he said breathlessly, his shoulders heaving.
"Not a-oh God!" Brad exclaimed, his eyes going wide, his mouth gaping open.
Mat spun around to see the Nemesis standing just below them, its eerily sightless eye seeming to fix on him, its lipless jaw clinched over its sickly red gums in a silent snarl, its shoulders still heaving.
"What. Is. That?" Brad asked, his eyes not leaving the Tyrant.
"Remember the monster we fought on the roof back in July?" Mat asked. Brad nodded. "Well, this is the advanced, hunter-killer version."
"Hunter…killer?" Brad gulped, his face pale. "What's that mean?"
Mat began to answer, but the Nemesis spoke for itself. "STARS" it growled in its diaphragm, which had to be at least eight feet deep to accommodate such a bass voice.
"What. The. Fuck!" Brad said, his breath coming quickly, his shoulders heaving frantically.
"C'mon" Mat said, taking the other man's shoulder. "He's big and tough, but I doubt he can get us up here. Let's go inside, before he figures out he could probably knock this thing down."
Numbly, Brad Vickers nodded, his face still pale. He pointed to an open window, motioning for Mat to step inside first, then following. Below them, the Nemesis remained fixed on the building. Then, with a loud bellow, it spun on its massive, leather-studded heel and stalked away.