Braving the Storm Chapter 7: The Honorable Michael Warren, a resident evil fanfic

Chapter 6: The Offices of the Honorable Michael Warren

(ROGER)

Roger Woods had had worse birthdays. At least, that was what he kept telling himself. Honestly, he was having a hard time remembering one this bad. But there just had to be some other time things had been this shitty.

He shifted from foot to foot, rubbing his hands together. It was nippy outside City Hall, and Roger needed to stay awake. God only knew what would happen to him if he didn't…

He had an assault rifle hanging down at his waist, a CAR-15 .223 automatic carbine. It was a wonderful weapon for close quarters, a discard from the US Army, the division it had belonged to still stamped on the receiver. It had been in storage for a while, until the present crisis, when the police had dug it out and handed it to him, telling him and seven other officers to head for City Hall and make sure the Mayor made it out of town safely.

That had seemed like an easy enough job, and guiltily, Roger had been glad of the assignment, since it meant he'd be off the sinking ship that was the defense of the RPD HQ. He'd figured he'd show up with the other cops at City Hall, collect the Mayor, and be on their way.

He hadn't expected orders to hold position at the large building indefinitely; while the Mayor did God only knew what inside. They'd been here since the early morning, and Roger just wanted to get out of Dodge.

He sucked at a cigarette, his cheeks hollowing out as he took a drag, the embers at the end briefly flaring an angry red that eerily matched the burning city around him. The cigarette was a habit he kept trying to break, every since he'd been legally able to smoke in the first place. He'd been able to do that for four years now, and it wasn't likely he'd be winning that particular battle any time soon.

He shrugged. Jaime loved to bitch at him about his smoking. Granted, Jaime loved to bitch at him about a lot of things. Roger loved his little sister…but there were times she got on his last nerve.

Still, he would gladly have put up with her incessant nagging if only it meant he was with her instead of in this nightmarish hell hole.

A sound behind him made Roger spin around, bringing up the CAR-15, but he lowered it after a moment, feeling a little embarrassed.

"Sorry Kurt" he said. "I thought you were-"

"Well, if there were zombies coming from inside City Hall, you'd already be fucked" Kurt Grey replied, hefting his AUG. "Cap sent me out to relieve you."

Roger nodded. "Thanks. See ya around." Without a backwards glance, he stepped around his replacement and headed back inside.

The police had taken over one of the administrative kitchens, where they'd raided the fridge and set up a coffee maker. Roger had had a cup of the resulting brew an hour before his watch, and immediately regretted it. Coffee always gave him the galloping shits, and this stuff was acidic enough to flay the armor off a tank. Still, a few of the older officers on the Force, like Chase Mathison on SWAT, or Hugh Young, in charge of this little adventure, refused to drink it unless it was this…memorable. Roger didn't understand that himself, and decided being with the RPD long enough caused one's taste buds to whither away and die. As for Roger, he liked to take his cue from the Beastie Boys, and take his sugar with a little coffee and cream.

There was, sadly, nothing to eat in the kitchen. It had apparently been standard procedure for everyone to go out to lunch on Friday, and so nobody had had anything in the fridge. Roger hadn't eaten since lunch yesterday, and right now he would've killed for food. Horrible clichés aside, he could've gone for a donut, or even on of those girly little French pastry things, whose names he could never remember.

He ended up having to make do with some extremely stale graham crackers he found in the pantry, thoroughly tasteless and old enough to be bent in half without breaking. He chocked it down, left the CAR-15 on the table, then headed upstairs to make his report.

He found Hugh Grey standing outside the Mayor's office, arms folded across his chest, a Browning Hi Power on his right thigh, a nightstick on his left. He was a tall, skinny man with a pallid complexion, perfectly fitting his name. He wore an expression sour enough to make Roger think he'd sucked an entire tree's worth of lemons. Had he not known the captain, Roger would've thought the man disapproved of him; in reality, that was just his face.

"Anything to report, Woods?" Grey asked, not unfolding his arms.

Roger shook his head. "No sir. Everything and everyone are just as fucked up as they were when we left."

Grey nodded. "Understood. Go wait in the conference room. I suspect we're going to be moving out soon."

"Yes sir" Roger said. It was the only answer he could give. They been expecting to move out since they'd first gotten to City Hall last night, and it hadn't happened yet. Still, Grey had been standing outside Warren's office since then, after the Mayor's own staff had left him to seek shelter elsewhere. Roger didn't know what had happened to them, but he'd seen a lot of people in business attire wandering around the area, so he didn't have to think hard.

He made his way to a couch in one of the upper floor waiting rooms. The thing was stiff and wooden, with cushions far too thin to be comfortable by any stretch of the imagination. Still, Roger's dad had slept in dirt during the siege of Khe San, and would've told his son to get over it.

Roger smiled ruefully as he pulled his Browning out of its holster and set it on the table beside him, atop year old copies of Time, National Geographic, and Life. His last thought before drifting off to sleep for the first time in twelve hours was that, when all this was over, he'd finally have some war stories to swap with his dad.

(NICHOLAI)

He was jogging down the center of the street, PSG-1 slung across his shoulder, his USP in one hand, his finger resting on the slide. According to his PDA, Nicholai had another three miles to get to his target, but also had about five days to do it. Still, Raccoon City had some of the worst streets of any settlement he'd ever had the misfortune of fighting inside, and his destination also happened to be on the other side of the River Circular, the local name for the portion of the Arklay that followed through the middle of the City. Add several thousand undead cannibals between here and there, and things were…interesting.

Nicholai hated interesting. Interesting meant your local guides may or may not have been mujahedeen, may or may not have been spies for the Americans, Saudis, or a million other unfriendly nations, you may or may not have the proper map for the region of the country you were in, let alone the maps themselves being accurate or even up to date. You may or may not know where all the landmines were. You may or may not have friendly helicopters to call in. Your supply train (pack mules and donkeys climbing dirt tracks through the mountains, more often than not) may or may not be controlled by the enemy, meaning you could receive dud ammo, assuming the local muj didn't just kill your irregulars outright.

Nicholai had had enough of interesting in Afghanistan. And on top of everything else, America was supposed to be a mat tvoyu civilized nation!

Still, there would be times to curse his ill fortune later. Now, he just wanted to focus on getting out of the city alive…and on all the money he'd have once he did.

(WARREN)

In another portion of the city, another man was thoroughly cursing ever having taken money in the first place. Michael Warren had been on the take with Umbrella since his first term as Mayor. He wasn't the only public servant from Colorado; he knew for a fact the Governor, the senator for his district, and the president were themselves his…co-workers.

Still, Raccoon City was his town, dammit. They'd foisted incompetents, idiots, and psychopaths onto him, from Brian Irons to Albert Wesker to William Birkin, all with the tacit instructions that he should just accept things the way they were, and not question the status quo.

Although he'd never been told as much, Warren had always suspected Harris, the previous tenet of his office, had questioned that status quo…and it had led to an unfortunate swim in the Arklay River, strapped firmly to his car. That was how he'd become Mayor in the first place, and Warren, unlike his predecessor, had too much to lose, being a well connected family man who could trace his ancestry all the way back to the first white settlers in the area. Umbrella had apparently learned its lesson, and chosen him to replace the dead man.

If Warren had known when Harris had asked him to be his deputy mayor what he knew now, he suspected he would've declined. He'd put up with that pervert Irons at the RPD, turning loose whack-jobs like Wesker or Guthrie on the streets. But this catastrophe was something much, much worse.

So now Warren sat in front of his computer, downloading as much data as he could onto several floppy discs. They were his insurance policy, the one way he knew he'd get out of this nightmare alive. He would've preferred taking Elizabeth with him, but there was no helping that now. He knew Irons, freak that he was, would probably take care of her, and there were a few uncorrupt members of the police force. Warren just had to worry about himself.

After five years on Umbrella's payroll, it was something he found he did best.

Well guys, sorry it's been so long since an update. I hope to be more consistent from here on out.

Also, I'm really excited to announce some of my characters may be appearing in two other stories.