Part II: Necropolis

Chapter 11: Waste

(DAVID)

"Alright, let's try to figure out where we are" said the cop, standing at the top of a long flight of stairs leading down. To his left was the continuation of those steps, leading back up, but terminating sharply in another collapsed ceiling.

David King leaned against the wall, the FAL he'd purloined from a soldier who wouldn't be needing it anymore slung across his back, putting all his weight on his left leg, his right foot resting on the sterile white surface. With practiced ease he flicked open his lighter, singeing the end of the cigarette clutched between his teeth. Slowly he sucked in a breath, then blew it out, the smoke sucked into one of the vent shafts overhead.

David liked to keep up a veneer of indifference. He'd found it gave him an advantage if others thought he just didn't give a fuck about everything, and the zombie apocalypse that had overtaken Raccoon City had just given him the chance to reinforce that.

David wasn't especially attached to the mountain town. He'd come here after some…admittedly bad decisions he'd made back in Denver, the end result of which had been deliberately fire bombing his own house, along with the body of the hitman who'd been just one step too slow for his own good. Everyone had assumed the dead man found in the wreckage had been David Foster, and since that had been his entire plan, David Foster had ceased to exist that night. A few hours later, David King, natural handyman, had shown up in Raccoon City, where he scored a gig as assistant custodian at the Apple Inn, a job that had eventually turned into a full-time, senior position, complete with his own free room. He'd never looked back, never resorted to any of the skills of his previous life…until tonight.

David was a lifelong smoker, and given how dangerous his previous existence had been, he'd figured cancer probably wouldn't kill him before someone else did. His stint at the Apple Inn (almost certainly over now) hadn't encouraged him to quite the habit, or even moderate it, but David had never really considered himself an addict; he smoked to maintain an image, nothing more. Still, as the subway cars had finally settled into position after flattening the biggest damn bug he'd ever seen, David had only one thought in his head.

I need a fuckin' cigarette.

Mark, the big black guy with the oh-so-caricature-esque accent was still shouldering along the wounded soldier, Karl. The other one, Dustin, was a few feet away, his eyes darting around nervously, as if he expected danger to come from either anywhere, or everywhere at once. Even after everything they'd been through, David wasn't that paranoid.

After a few more drags, he sighed and flicked the cigarette onto the floor, stubbing it out with his foot. Gun for hire, gang soldier, enforcer, button man, David Foster might have been, but one thing you could never say about him was he was a goddammed arsonist…assuming you excluded his last act under that name.

Having gotten his fix, David pushed himself off the wall and squared his shoulders, unslinging the battle rifle and clicking the safety off. This one only had two settings: semi and safe; David figured, if given time and the right tools, he could've converted it to bump-fire on full auto, but figured that probably wouldn't be necessary. The FAL, after all, kicked like a very pissed off mule, and there was no reason to add to that by changing its fire mode, especially since one well-placed bullet would take down the average zombie. Granted, if he ran into something bigger (like the giant flea monster earlier), he'd probably wish he had something bigger, but standing and fighting just wasn't David's style, not when it was possible to run and live to fight another day.

There wasn't a whole lot to check out, he realized immediately. They were in a gigantic stairwell, their only potential moves either back the way they'd come (blocked), up (blocked), or down. It was evident the cop (Ryan, or Ryman, or something like that) was just issuing orders to hear himself talk. David wasn't going to be sorry to be rid of that.

On the other hand…

There was that quite girl, hanging out with that bitch reporter. David knew her type, the quiet, uncharismatic kind who sat on the sidelines. He'd helped her get off the bar yesterday, and again in the stampede. Maybe he could… He shrugged inwardly. Now wasn't the time to contemplate how long it had been since he'd gotten some (and it wasn't really that long ago, anyway). Still and all…

David King, formerly David Foster, squared his shoulders. There would be time to address all this later. Now he just wanted to find someplace to take a nap. He'd been up since yesterday morning, and fuck him if he wasn't tired.

Fuck me if I am, too he thought, smiling faintly as he shuffled over to follow the others.

(KEVIN)

There was a door in one of the corridor's ridiculously white walls. It wasn't the first such door they'd encountered; it was just the first one that opened. Kevin kept expecting Imperial storm troopers or something to come marching out at any moment and start shooting. Granted, since Kevin also liked to think of himself as the hero of this little adventure (or at least an important player therein), he figured they'd probably miss him. Whether or not they'd kill any other members of their little group was anybody's guess.

It was a moot point. The door didn't open on a squad of plastic-clad soldiers with horrible aim. Instead it opened on…the sewer.

"What a spectacular smell you've discovered" Alyssa snorted from behind him. Kevin was finding slowly but surely that she wasn't really as hostile as she acted. That was just her way of dealing with the world, and honestly he was finding he it pretty funny.

Kevin leaned around the corner, aiming down the G36's sights in both directions. When nothing stumbled out at him, he lowered the assault rifle and turned to the others. "Looks clear. Let's go, people."

Considering that he'd spent the last day in a city full of the undead, some of whom had somehow managed to enter advanced stages of decay, the smell of the sewer didn't really bother him. Since he'd gotten to go swimming in another one with everyone else last night, he figured he'd gotten immunized to the stench. Nobody complained, so he figured the same held true for the rest of their group.

The walkway they were using came to an abrupt end about thirty feet later, a small gap in the railing where anyone so inclined could hop into the fast moving stream of sewage. Kevin turned and looked at the others.

"Anyone up for a swim?" he asked, smiling faintly.

Nobody would meet his eyes.

"C'mon guys. It's this or go back and try to dig out the-okay then."

Without saying a word, Cindy stepped past him and hopped into the water, which quickly rose up almost to her waist. She shivered a little at the cold, before turning to the other. "Come on in. The water's…pungent."

George, Mark, and the uninjured mercenary stepped over and joined Cindy, Mark and Karl both holding their weapons above the water. "Just like Nam" the old veteran muttered.

"What about the zombies?" Jim asked, watching the water nervously.

George shrugged as he helped Klaus, the mercenary who'd gotten the shit knocked out him earlier, into the water. "No need to worry. Dead bodies float. So any zombies in here with us will be on the surface. We'll be totally safe."

Kevin, David, Alyssa, and Yoko followed suit. The water was colder than Kevin had expected, but it wasn't too bad, and pretty soon he was used to it.

The water came up to just below his waist. Kevin was a little worried about his Colt, but he kept the gun on a holster at just above belt level, so it stayed out of the water, which was something. His backup mags and everything else were getting soaked, though, which he wasn't very happy about.

This sewer was just as drab as the last one he'd been in. The walls were brown, the ceiling was dark, the water was…best not contemplated. There were, however, strange markings every so often. At first he thought they were just signs to give sewer workers a hand navigating the tunnels, but he hadn't seen any manhole covers the entire time they'd been down here. Further, there was that weird sterile-white hallway they'd escaped the subway into. Kevin didn't think that was part of the sewer, and he didn't think this was, either.

One of the walls, for example, had large, white letters stenciled on the sides. UMB-239 it said, the letters' form broken up so it looked like it was written in pulverized white elbow macaroni.

Kevin winced. The thought of food just reminded him how long it had been since he'd last eaten. He figured everyone else was just as hungry as he was, so he mentally shifted his list of priorities around. "Food" made its way up, putting itself neck and neck "with find shelter" for second place, priority number one still being "Get the hell out of Raccoon City ASAP." He was hoping he'd be able to get at least the former taken care of at some point soon-

Kevin felt the current of the water suddenly change. He looked over his shoulder to see a gapping black hole had suddenly opened up where the UMB sign had been. The water, given a new direction to flow, took to it gratefully.

Yoko had enough time to let out a surprised gasp before it sucked her down as well. Alyssa started to lunge after her, but Mark grabbed her shirt, pulling her back.

"Wait!" he shouted, pointing down at the dark abyss below. "We don't know how far down that is, or where it even leads."

With a hiss, the doors snapped back together like large, rusty teeth.

"What about Yoko?" Alyssa asked, her eyes darting between Kevin and Mark.

"If Yoko's okay now, then odds are she'll be okay whenever we manage to get down there to her" Kevin replied. "And if she's not…" He didn't finish that sentence, but he could see from Alyssa's face she got his meaning. If Yoko wasn't okay, then no amount of reckless speed on their part would help her anyway.

"C'mon" he said, waving them forward. "Let's get a move on."

(YOKO)

Yoko screamed for about three seconds of her decent. That was long enough for her to get a mouthful of salty sewage water, and after one dose of that, she figured she could go her entire life without another.

After being twisted, turned, and spun around enough to feel like she was a pair of dirty socks in a washing machine during its spin cycle, Yoko finally found herself deposited at the bottom of a waterfall of sewage in a narrow hallway. Groggily she stood up, stepping out of the torrent of nastiness even though she was already completely soaked.

Okay, now where am I-Oh God!

A zombie lunged toward her, his lower jaw hanging on by a few tendons on the left side of his face. Yoko scrambled back and the zombie stumbled, his outstretched arms fumbling a minute for balance. With another groan he lunged again.

Yoko sidestepped and hurried down the hallway, moving as fast as she could in the now knee-deep water. The zombie let out a confused grunt, pawing at the water as if unsure where she'd gotten to.

Yoko yanked the door at the end of the hall open, finding herself in some kind of break room. Two thick wooden tables had been pushed together in the center of the room, while a third sat in the corner, an old fashioned typewriter sitting on it. Next to that was a large metal chest, with a few multicolored plants sitting on top. Yoko stood still for a moment, trying to catch her breath. The sound of a doorknob turning to her right caused her to spin around, eyes wide.

The door swung open and a woman about her age wearing a horrific yellow jacket and a knee length skirt stepped inside. She spotted Yoko almost immediately, a look of surprise flashing across her face. Surprise which quickly and unpleasantly turned into satisfaction, as a gun appeared in her right hand.

"Yoko" the other woman said, stepping forward, the waist-level handgun still trained on her. "Well, I have to say I didn't expect you to come back here. After everything that happened, I figured you'd go hide somewhere like the little child you are."

Yoko felt her eyes dilate, images flashing past her for a moment: memories of this woman, of working with her, of unwarranted animosity. A name. "Monica?"

Monica narrowed her eyes impatiently. "That's right. Now what is it you want?" she demanded. "Why'd you come back here?"

"I don't understand…" Yoko stammered. Her head was starting to hurt again. Her eyes fell on a metal suitcase in Monica's other hand. "What's in that?' she asked.

Monica's green eyes flashed. "What? Don't tell me you're here for this too? Well," she pulled the hammer down on the handgun, "I'm afraid I can't let you have this. I worked hard for this little retirement plan here, and no one, certainly not a scared little girl like you, is going to stand in my way."

"I don't know what you're talking about" interjected Yoko, but Monica wasn't interested in listening. Yoko seemed to remember that being a recurring theme with her…

"Don't you play innocent with me!" she snapped. "I'm on to you. You think you can take what's mine? You're wrong! You can't outsmart me! You could never outsmart me."

"I don't-"

A sudden light came on in Monica's eyes. "You know, I think there might've been a reason for us to meet here." She smiled maliciously. "You wouldn't happen to have your access card, would you?'

Yoko was puzzled. She had no idea what Monica was talking about, couldn't remember ever having been here in this room before, yet there was something uncomfortably familiar about all this…Without knowing why, Yoko reached into the pocket of her jacket and pulled out a small, red plastic card, a holographic image of a multicolored octagon on one side. "Is this what you're-?"

Monica stepped forward, setting the case down before snatching the card out of Yoko's hands. "Yes" she hissed, her eyes lighting up. "Thanks Yoko, ya little lifesaver. This is just what I need to get out of this dump."

"Out? You mean, you have a way to-?"

Monica scooped up the case, then turned and pointed the handgun at Yoko again. Without warning she pulled the trigger, a round smashing into one of the potted plants and causing Yoko's shoulders to stiffen, her whole body freezing up in terror. "Now, don't you go and try following me" she said, smiling sweetly as she turned to leave. "Have a nice life" she said over her shoulder. "What's left of it."

Yoko stood there, completely still, completely frozen with terror, long after Monica had already moved on. She was still frozen when the others found her.