Chapter 4

While on the hunt for materials to barricade the west end corridor, Meyer and George had come across police chief Iron's personal 'treasure room.' Remnants from the station being an art museum, Irons had looted countless artifacts over the years for his own private amusement. Meyer stared around the room in disgust. Here we have police in other parts of the world can't even afford bullets and this fat bastard is sitting on ivory and gold. Meyer thought bitterly. Pretentiously decorated vases and bust adorned the dreary walls along with a plethora of unopened crates. Two stone reliefs of highly decorated females flanked a larger sarcophagus looking one at the far end of the wall and a stylized mosaic circular ceiling shined on them from above.

"Well, no one can ever accuse the chief of being a Philistine, eh?" George joked.

"I guess not. Come on, let's get started." Meyer walked to the nearest crate and lifted it off the ground. It was covered in red tape that read 'replica Aztec spears: handle with care.' Meyer lifted the crate above his head and with all of his might threw it to the stone floor. The crate splintered and burst open with a thunderous ovation. Meyer kicked the useless spears to the side and collected the wooden remains.

"Try not to break the boards, Meyer." George insisted. He was busy trying to pry the boards loose by hand, straining against the nails punctured into them.

Takes too long. Meyer thought. He picked up another crate, a heavy cube shaped one and tossed it against the wall. It exploded on impact, slivers of wood and nails raining to the floor. A battered black cauldron lazily rolled from the wreckage and toppled over.

"Jesus Christ, I can't tell you nothing, can I!?"

"Well, if you want to do things the slow way, be my guest." George was still struggling with the first crate. He sighed and lifted it off the ground. With a deep grunt, he threw the crate against the wall of vases in a deafening roar of noise. George chuckled and dusted his hands. "Well, I guess it is more practical!"

They continued to work, breaking boards, collecting planks, admiring pieces of art, and then destroying them. Meyer was sifting through the remains of a priceless hand-crafted Cherokee stand when George started talking.

"Say Meyer, you were pretty intense back in that hall-way. If I didn't know any better I would say you were enjoying yourself."

Meyer looked at George and smiled. Truthfully, he had felt something during those battles with the zombies. An excitement in the pit of his stomach, a surge of euphoria, something he hadn't felt since 1991...

"Look, if you're trying to judge me, go ahead. I'd be lying to you if I told you a part of me wasn't enjoying this, but sometimes that type of mentality helps, it keeps you on edge, keeps you alive."

George chuckled again. "Well, excuse me for questioning your 'killer instincts.'

He scooted closer to Meyer. "So...how many people have you killed?"

Meyer looked at George in confusion. Just what is he trying to pull? "There is a difference between killing something that's already dead and killing a living, breathing human being."

George backed away in mock surprise. "I guess you must not have saw much action in Kuwait then, huh?"

Meyer continued to collect the broken boards, not letting George see the change in his demeanor. He knew that it was bound to come out sooner or later. What mattered now was how much he actually knew.

"So, where did you find out about this?" Meyer asked coolly.

"I had a friend of mine at the federal office run a little back-round check on you. How strange is it for a recruit fresh out of police academy to rise in the ranks of the R.P.D. so fast? Become a member of the Select Police Force , even have a brief stint for the S.T.A.R.S. Bravo team. All the while his past being a secret, no one knowing who he was or where he came from. Well, I know now. Private First Class Andrew Meyer, United States Marine Corps., served in Kuwait back in 1991 during Desert Storm. Dishonorably Discharged after allegations of sexual assault against an Iraqi girl. Spent 18 months in Leavenworth until his record was mysteriously expunged. Flash forward five years later, he lands a position in the Raccoon City Police Department. Am I right so far?"

Meyer nodded his head, impressed. "It looks like you did your homework."

"But what I want to know is how did a woman raping-gung ho-son of a bitch like you get to join the force?"

Meyer smiled. "Let's get one thing straight right now. I never raped any-body." He reached into his pocket and removed a photograph. It was the one he kept ever since the war, never letting it go. All sentimentality aside, he used it as a constant reminder. The photo showed Meyer and another man standing in front of a M1 Abrams tank. They were wearing army fatigues of drab brown and tan, guns held high in a sign of victory, and beaming from ear to ear. Meyer slid the photo over to George.

"Who is this?" George asked, studying the photograph.

"That's me and one of my old marine buddies, Michael Irons."

"Michaels Irons...?" George whispered. "Well, I'll be damned, that's chief Irons son."

Meyer nodded. "I don't know what came over me, but I couldn't allow Michael to go down like that, so-----"

"You took the fall." George finished.

"Yep."

George shook his head and gave the picture back to Meyer. "I don't know if that was incredibly admirable or incredibly stupid."

"Well, I guess in the long run it worked out. Turned out that Mike's father was running for city mayor at around the same time. He used what-ever little influence he could to get me out of Leavenworth and wipe my record clean. Even promised me a job once he became mayor. He ended up losing, and had to resort to chief of police, and the rest is history."

He had never told any-body any of this, but he figured since the world was falling apart around them any-way, it really didn't matter.

"I think that's enough wood for the barricades, let's get out of here." George said.

They gathered the wood and made their way out of the room. As they passed police chief Irons office Meyer paused and stared at the door. Even though Irons had saved his life all those years ago, Meyer felt he owed the chief nothing. As far as he was concerned chief Bryan Irons was a manipulative coward. He should be here with us fighting... if he isn't already dead that is.