He spotted another exit as he reached the end of the canned goods aisle. That made three, one at the front, one through the loading bay, and now a fire escape at the back. At a push, he could smash the front window, make a quick escape if the others were blocked.
The store only seemed to have two guards. Nothing to get too concerned about. But they could slow him down long enough for the real threat to catch him up.
He tossed a few cans into his basket. Vegetables and meat mostly. Some fruit in syrup for dessert. He never bought more than he could carry, and tried to make as few stops as possible. He'd eat well for a few nights, go hungry a few others. Compared with MRE's, it was heaven.
His jaw was itching, but the mask of anonymity a hedge of facial hair gave him felt good, even if it was counter to everything he'd been taught in the Rangers.
It reminded him too much of Africa. A month spent scrabbling around in that God-forsaken jungle, nothing sharper than a Leatherman in his pack. And shaving with a glorified Swiss Army knife was easier said than done.
He picked up a bottle of Jack on his way to the checkout. Or imitation Jack. The dog-eared bills in his pocket wouldn't have stretched to the real thing.
It didn't matter anyway. One brand of paint thinner was as good as any other, so long as it lit a fire in his belly and let him forget about the numbness in his fingers and toes. He had a couple of cigarettes left too. One of those tonight, a swig of whiskey, and whichever gutter he crawled into would hold him like his mother's arms till morning.
He dumped his purchases on the counter, weathering the usual dirty looks from the patrons and the girl behind it. Same old story.
He couldn't really blame them. Who wanted someone who stank of cigarette smoke and stale sweat standing in their breathing space? He looked like any other bum. Smelled like it too. Aroused the same kind of suspicion when he was standing in the liquor aisle.
But the moment they saw the colour of his money, gave him his bag, and told him to "have a nice day", they forgot him. Transients were just that. Transient. A flicker in the memory. Not worth remembering. Not worth telling anyone about.
No one ever suspected a bum of having served his country. No one suspected a bum of standing for something, now or before.
And they never accused a bum of knowing too much.
He zoned out while the cans made their journey from basket to paper bag, sounding off in identical voices as they hit the scanner's glass plate. The price brought him back to reality with a bump.
Kinda steep, he thought, and then he remembered the whiskey.
He counted the bills out of his wallet, and the girl swept them into the till, trying not to touch them. Short-haired girl. Looked like her. Didn't act like her though. Jaw grinding on gum. Hair dye, red and black, with colourless roots showing. None of her class. None of her smarts. A dull-eyed shop zombie.
Gotta stop checking out the girls with short hair. That's over. She wouldn't even be a girl these days. If she survived.
She dropped the change into his hand, and wasn't too careful about it either. He let the slight pass and slipped the coins into his wallet, then set it down at the end of the counter so he could load his pack up with cans.
The girl let out an irritated sigh.
And this one's nothing like her.
He slung his rucksack and scrunched the paper bag, tossing it into a waste bin behind the counter. He was feeling heavy. That was good. Heavy meant he could keep walking for a few more days.
It was Autumn. Time to start heading south. He'd winter in California, maybe Nevada. Do a couple of odd jobs on the way, so long as the folks out there didn't ask too many questions.
He glanced back along the counter. One of the guards was heading his way. He acted like he hadn't noticed and started for the door.
Twenty metres...
He never let himself get stopped. He never let his ID fall into their hands, fake or not. He knew from experience that they had agents everywhere, in every organisation. And if he was chased, he could always ditch the bag. It didn't matter if he went a day or two without eating. He'd lived through worse.
Fifteen metres...
The chiller cabinet showed him the store behind him in a flash of polished glass and metal. The guard was still chasing him. And it looked like he was putting on speed.
His pulse quickened. He kept an even pace. No need to let the guy know he was in a hurry. With any luck, he could slip out of the store before he tried to stop him.
Ten metres...
"Excuse me, sir."
Maybe it was time to cut and run, just get out. He wouldn't be passing this way again anyway. Better to speed up than slow down. All it took was one call. One minute he'd be standing at the checkout answering pointless questions. Then the cops would show and drag him downtown because of some "suspect fitting the description" or because he was intoxicated or disturbing the peace or being otherwise undesirable.
Next thing he knew, he'd be under a black hood, in a truck to whatever shit hole Umbrella was using to dump its bodies these days. And he'd been in that boat before.
Sitting in a jeep, waiting to hang. I'm not going out like that. I'm not dying for someone else's crimes. Never! Five metres...
A hand clapped down on his shoulder.
"Sir, you-"
His hand snapped out, caught a thin wrist, twisted it away. He spun, his feet slipping into a position that was too familiar. His palm hit something solid and a choked retch filled his ears. Then, his heel caught the man's ankle and they sailed down to the floor with him on top. His fist came down, again and again and...
...again. His knife arm was slick with blood, his fingers sticky around the handle. The thing let out a gurgle that bubbled out of the gaping hole of its mouth. His knuckles turned white around the fistful of its battered suit jacket, holding it up as his arm pistoned back and forth, back and forth. Blood soaked his pants. Bone splintered and rattled across the floor like misshapen dice.
Its lips pulled back over bloody teeth, like it was smiling. He stuck the blade through its jaw, pinning its tongue. The grin stayed.
His fist shattered its eye socket, punched in its nose, knocked its mandible loose. The grin fell lopsided and lost a couple of teeth.
Someone screamed.
Rebecca, standing behind him, nursing the bruise on her shoulder where it had grabbed her, eyes wide with something that looked like fear. Didn't make any sense. The thing was dead. She didn't need to be scared anymore.
She hadn't screamed. She'd said something. Something he hadn't heard.
"Billy," she breathed, voice trembling, "stop. Please."
It was the clerk who'd screamed. It was the security guard looking up at him with his face a blood-slick mass of purple, eye swollen shut, nose broken, jaw hanging on a popped hinge. No Rebecca. No zombie.
The guy was holding his wallet. He'd forgotten to pick it up again after loading his pack. Must have left it on the counter.
There wasn't any time to feel shame. No time to apologise. A couple of the patrons had cell phones out and dialling.
He grabbed the wallet and bolted.
-x-x-x-x-x-
A/N: Not a huge fan of Lieutenant Coen. I think he could have been greatly improved with a few cosmetic modifications and a personality, but I was really disappointed that I didn't get to play as the Bravo Team in RE0, so that was an instant turn-off. I'm fond of this chapter though, and I think that Chris's chapter was really a turning point for me in this series.
Thanks to CJJS, Sincerity and n8tivegurl for buoying up my ego with reviews, and to the newcomer Moonfawn for starting at the beginning. Also, thanks as always to the lovely Shakahnna, who makes all of this possible. She is the main reason you have enjoyed this as much as you have.