Chapter 16: Part Of The Job
October 2, 1998
12:20 AM
Saint Jude's Hospital
Saint Jude's looked more like a ghost town than a hospital to Blaze – everything he had seen so far, from the ground floor to the top, led the biker to question if people had ever inhabited the building in the first place. Deserted was the word for the hospital but in any event the Psychos Inc leader was only too happy for the utter lack of people occupying the grounds. He had not cared much for the few folks he had bumped into while exploring the building.
'People?' The big man though, easing him self down into a plastic chair pulled up against one wall. 'Nah, those weren't people. People don't walk around with half their skin falling off looking like they don't even notice. People don't take four slugs through the chest and keep on comin'. People don't lurch around the corner and take a fucking bite out of your arm.'
Blaze rolled his torn sleeve up and glanced down at the angry red teeth marks standing out against the flesh of his forearm. Those bastards – whatever they were – could sure bite hard. In truth, the biker didn't think the wound was all that serious. It had stopped bleeding a few minutes ago and while it did itch like the dickens Blaze was sure that would subside shortly as long as he didn't pick at it.
"I can't believe I let that fucker get the jump on me." The Psychos Inc leader muttered to him self. The complete and absolute emptiness – the loneliness – of the emergency room reception area wasn't unnerving him at all – no sir – but the sound of his own voice did help the biker to think more clearly. No, nothing to do with the eerie silence suffocating the place – that was ridiculous. "I should have just stayed put after Shots got Boomer settled. Shit, how was I supposed to know that guy would try and have me for a midnight snack? He looked just like a doctor in that lab coat. Mother fucker came out of nowhere."
In retrospect, Blaze though that he really should have just planted his fat can in a chair and waited for Shots to come and get him but after arriving at the hospital litter under two hours ago it had become apparent there was nothing more Blaze could do for his injured crew member. Shots was the wizard surgeon – or had been – not him. So, in an effort to quash any feelings of restlessness and distract himself from the mounting concern over his oldest friend, the Psycho's founded had taken it upon himself to peruse the grounds in search of any other survivors, specifically doctors that could lend Shots a hand with stitching up Boomer.
All the man had found however was a whole lot of nothing. Oh, there had been plenty to look at – cold, sterile hallways that reeked powerfully of harsh sanitizers wormed every which way, forming a confusing nexus of intertwining corridors, all as bland and uninteresting as the ones that came before it. No, actually that was not entirely true. A few times the hallways had been littered with glass from shattered fluorescent lights, leaving parts of the hospital cloaked in menacing shadows. Or sometimes a winding corridor would twist past a patient's room – sans the patient of course – where the nightstand had been turned on its side, or blood covered the mattress from top to bottom or one of the windows appeared as if the room's occupant had chosen to fly the coup in the most literal way and had hurled him or herself through the plate glass. Not to mention the smell of the place. Saint Jude's stank from head to toe of dried blood and industrial cleansers. Something Blaze found sweetly ironic – and nauseating.
Yes, there was certainly plenty of interesting things to look at and wonder over – what Saint Jude's was lacking in great quantities was people. In a city gone mad the Psycho's lead had expected to find a rather large proportion of Raccoon's population holed up in the hospital nursing everything from a bullet in the gut to a pipe wrapped around the head. Instead, all Blaze found was some broken glass and a few creepy looking hospital bedrooms. Not a soul though – until that doctor had reeled around the corner on the second floor of the ER and helped himself to a piece of Blaze's forearm.
Wiping sweat away from his forehead with the back of his hand – he seemed to be perspiring quite a lot now for some reason – Blaze leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. The scene played through his mind again like a movie localized inside his skull.
The floor above the emergency room was just as foul smelling and deserted as the lobby below it. Blaze walked down another long, empty hallway that forked at the end, the path disappearing to the left and right but a nurse's station lay directly ahead of him. Maybe the phone cradled atop the pearl-shaded desk actually worked, unlike the one he had found in the nurse's booth downstairs.
Pacing slowly forward, the sound of his own footfalls the only thing to be heard in that cramped, lonely corridor, Blaze hoped Shots was having more luck with patching up Boomer than he was with finding help. That was when he heard it. A strange noise for a hallway in a hospital – a soft, whispering sound like a hand being drawn across dry leaves.
"Is anyone there?" He asked, fishing around inside his jacket and drawing one of his Browning's – just in case.
There was no answer – save for a soft grunt. Blaze rounded the corner…and stopped when he saw the figure standing stooped over in the hall. Once during a fight in Madison the Psychos Inc leader had shattered a bottle of whisky over an opponent's head and then rammed his face through the table where he was seated. That fellow had certainly walked away looking in much better condition than the man facing him now in a filthy lab coat.
The man – a doctor by the look of his white coat and polished black loafers – stood a head shorter than the burly biker, greasy brown hair clinging to the edges of an otherwise bald scalp. With a tortured moan the doctor craned his neck up, revealing bloodshot pupils and a face as white as a sheet. And just as blank. There was nothing left in the man's eyes: no intelligence, no emotion, no nothing. He just looked…hollow.
"Hey, you okay?" Blaze asked, knowing it was a stupid question just by looking at the physician. He clearly was not okay.
That once pristine lab coat was now caked in dry blood and other dark patches of nameless refuse. A thick gash on the man's neck spilled crimson fluid down the collar of a blue shirt. Raising his arms limply the doctor staggered forward and Blaze was horrified to see dripping bits of unidentified gristle hanging from beneath yellowed fingernails. Then the smell hit him – a stench much akin to a gas stop washroom he had once been forced to use outside Wyoming…no, the man stank worse than that actually.
"You just back up now, you hear doc?" Blaze said, ashamed at how his voice broke in mid-sentence. He knew he should back away from the shambling figure but found his thick legs rooted to the ground. Those piercing red eyes seemed to hold him in place. "Doc?"
The man was getting far too close for comfort now. Blaze extended one well-toned, hair-covered arm to ward the doctor off – an arm the man seized eagerly and with surprising strength. Too stunned by the might those limp arms possessed, the biker watched in mute terror as the physician pulled his head forward and sank cracked teeth into the meat of the Psycho's forearm. He felt no shame in crying out when the doctor tore a bloody chunk from his appendage.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Blaze bellowed, throwing the crazed doctor across the floor and leveling his pistol. No one so much as touched the big man without his express permission without risking death. This prick had bit him. The man staggered back to his feet and Blaze opened fire.
Four ragged holes erupted in a rough line across the man's chest, blood dribbled from the wounds, further staining an already filthy lab coat. The doctor did not so much as pause one step or bat an eyelash. He continued forward like…like a zombie Blaze realized.
Raising his arms the physician uttered another anguished wail and shuffled forward again. Blaze fired once more, this time sending a 9mm round straight through the man's right temple. The body slumped to the floor and he took off at a dead run, gripping his bleeding arm tight.
Snapping back to the present Blaze glanced down at the teeth marks standing out on his forearm. Everyone in this city belonged in a crazy house. Irritably, the Psycho's Inc leader scratched at the wound – it felt as if a fire had been kindled beneath the surface of his skin.
"I hope the other guys are alright." Blaze muttered to himself as he ran his fingernails along the bite, realizing how quite things had gotten all of a sudden – not that it bothered him at all, of course. "I didn't want to leave them like that but I had no choice. It was either burn rubber or get sliced and diced like Howie. No, they'll be fine, Shank can keep their heads together and even that pig seemed to have a pretty good hold of him self. Cold eyes though. It's just taking them awhile to get here is all. Still, those fuckers were fast and…"
Shaking his head Blaze told himself to shut up. His crew could handle whatever this city had to throw at them – no matter how insane it might be. Monsters were nothing compared to some of the demons in their pasts. You could fight monsters you were helpless against memories. They would show up soon, it was just taking awhile.
Sighing, the biker tried to stop thinking about the rest of the Psychos Inc gang – he had suffered some powerful anxiety attacks in the past simply because he thought about things too much. Instead, Blaze used the moment of quiet to study his new surroundings. Like every other area in Saint Jude's there was little to look at in the lobby.
The walls and floors were made of the same sterile tiles and reeked of the same detergents as every other wing in the hospital. The double glass front doors leading out into the streets had been barricaded using vending machines and a few wooden benches but whoever had done the barricading was long gone – something the biker was thankful for after seeing what some of the staff members were like. The nurse's station down the hall to his right was empty and the phone disconnected. The elevator around the corner on Blaze's left stood frozen in place. The only clue that anyone had ever been inside Saint Jude's were a few scattered papers on the floor outside the nurse's station and several footprints in the dust by the elevator.
"Fucking ghost town." Blaze sighed, pulling his sleeve down. Scratching brought no relief and he certainly did not want to risk the gash becoming infected. "I should just go back and tell Shots this place is about as lively as a funeral – sure fits the whole mood of this freak show."
With another defeated sigh Blaze pushed himself to his feet and started towards the elevator, pistol in hand – just in case. He had left Shots with Boomer in one of the rooms on the third floor, he'd just have to hope the man had sense enough not to go wandering around like he had. No, Shots would never leave a patient – let alone a friend like Boomer.
Blaze reached for the button to summon the lift – and stumbled a foot backwards, raising his weapon as the doors slid open of their own accord, framing two tall figures. Two figures dressed from head to toe in black combat gear, holding a pair of automatic rifles trained on his heart. The couple appeared alien in the gas masks that hid their faces, the bright red goggles looking like a set of giant insect eyes.
'Who the fuck are these goons?' The biker wondered silently as the pair regarded him with tilted heads, obviously seeming more than a little surprised. 'Military types by the looks of them. Shit, that's the first good news I've gotten all day.'
"Who are – " Blaze's words were lost in the thunder of automatic fire as both rifles opened up at the same time. A total of fourteen rounds tore through the Psycho's barrel chest, exiting out his back. Blaze staggered back a step, face contorted in pain. He was dead before he hit the floor.
- Page Break -
Rico Da Silva gazed down at the man he had just killed and wondered why he felt no remorse in the action. He had no idea who the fellow was, had no reason to wish him any ill and yet he had just shot the man dead where he stood. Should he not have felt some degree of regret, some pang of guilt that he had just murdered a hapless victim of a tragic accident? Rico supposed he should have but all he could bring himself to feel was…nothing. That was the only word for it.
For the first time in his life Rico wondered if all his years working for Umbrella had desensitized him to the realities of his profession. Perhaps all the death he had both seen and dealt for the company over the years had caused the line between right and wrong, good and evil, to become so blurred it no longer even mattered. Could one really lose their conscience that way? The major supposed they could.
Then again, that line could have become blurred well before he had joined the corporation. Back in the Basques Rico had cut throats with the best of them but that had been in the name of revolution not corporate greed. Rico could hardly recall the last time he had felt any empathy for those he killed, in fact, he could not recall having done so at all. Rico Da Silva killed people, that was just part of his job, he had merely learned to accept that fact.
'Besides,' Rico thought, edging out of the elevator with Sergeant Petrovsky on his right, keeping his rifle trained on the downed man. 'You've got bigger problems to worry about right now.'
Indeed he did. Smith was not going to be happy when he heard about this. A survivor this close to a White Umbrella facility was certainly going to ruffle the man's feathers. Rico did not particularly care about his supervisor's feelings but from past experience the major was well aware that when Smith got into a mood everyone around the man paid for it.
Smith, just thinking the name caused Rico to grind his teeth in aggravation. On paper the mission might be the major's to command but it was Smith who had taken over giving orders. In fact, that was precisely why Rico and Boris were in the ER's reception area in the first place. Smith wanted them to plant the C-4 charges while he took the rest of the squad to secure the sample.
"You don't trust me to take care of it, do you?" Da Silva had asked after emerging from the sewers and into the hospital's basement. He had been talking about retrieving the sample.
"On the contrary, major," Smith had replied in such a patronizing way that Rico knew the man was smiling behind his mask. "It's a task I would not trust to anyone else."
Rico snarled at the memory. Clearly, Smith had been talking about the sample too. Still, as mad as he was the major could still feel surprise tickling the back of his head as he looked down at the corpse splayed on the floor. Truly, he had not expected anyone to have survived the outbreak this long – especially someone as gruff and wild looking as the man in the leather jacket.
"Sir?" Petrovsky said, glancing at Rico as he nudged the body with his foot. "What should we do about this one?"
"Check him out." Replied Rico after a moment's thought. "See if you can find any identification on him. Maybe he's not as ordinary as he looks if he's made it this far. I'm going to check in with Smith."
Boris nodded as Rico stalked away and set to work picking inside the man's jacket without hesitation. Rico would have to recommend Petrovsky for a promotion when they got back – at least he could be counted on to do as he was told. Major Da Silva was not sure he could trust the rest of his team so much, especially with Smith pulling strings now.
"Smith, this is Da Silva, come in." Rico said into the radio clipped to his shoulder. "Smith, do you read?"
"Yes, yes." Came the grainy answer a moment later. "What is it, major?"
"Petrovsky and I found a survivor." Rico replied and smiled, wishing he could have seen the look on his supervisor's face. "He's male, probably in his forties, long hair, big beard, has a funky leather jacket too. Nametag on it reads 'Blaze'. Cute huh?"
There was s short pause on the other end of the radio before Smith's voice came back. Rico frowned when he heard how cool and plain it sounded. "Thank you for the update, major. Do you have any other news?"
Again, the Latino gritted his teeth before answering. "Smith" had certainly changed a great deal from the man he used to know. "No, but I was wondering how you and my boy scouts are getting along down there. Any progress?" Rico made no attempt to keep the irritation out of his voice.
"Progress is a slow process, major." Smith replied in that unfeeling tone of his. "I will keep you apprised of any changes in our situation. Over and out."
The man was impossible, Rico thought as he balled the hand not gripping his rifle into a tight fist. So, Smith thought he was calling the shots now did he? Well that man might find himself in for a surprise before the night was through.
As it turned out, Rico was the one in for the surprise as a gunshot rang out behind him. Whirling about the B.O.N.E.S. commander half raised his AK before seeing Boris standing over this "Blaze" character holding a smoking pistol in one hand. A nasty hole had sprouted in the bearded man's forehead while Rico's back had been turned.
"He was infected." Boris explained, his voice nearly as cold and monotonous as Smith's. Rico suppressed a shudder. "I thought it best to act quick, just in case he decided to get back up again."
The major moved over to stand next to the Russian in examining the body. During his search the B.O.N.E.S. trooper had removed the man's jacket, revealing a deep, red, swollen laceration on Blaze's forearm. Apparently one of the carriers had tried to have the unfortunate man for a midnight snack. Rico did feel something then, joy that he had done the man a favor.
"Find anything?" Major Da Silva asked.
"No," Petrovsky answered with a shake of the head. "There was some cash in his wallet but no ID. He was armed though, an expensive pair of nine-millimeters."
Rico stared down at the corpse frowning. Armed but no ID? Something smelled fishy. The man was probably just a vagrant, moving from town to town begging for quarters – or an Umbrella spy. Maybe sent in along with Smith to undermine his command of this operation. No, no that was unlikely. Smith was just making him paranoid.
"He was probably just a drifter." Rico said at last, still not sure he believed his own words. "Whoever he is, he's dead now. Let's set the charges and get back to the others. Keep them out of sight – just in case. Tonight has been the night of surprises after all."
Petrovsky only nodded and set to work digging the explosives out of his rucksack. Once the charges were in place Rico could blow them from Tahiti if he wanted. Watching Boris work the major reminded himself again to recommend the Russian for a promotion.
Waiting for the other man to finish placing the C-4, Rico glanced over his shoulder at the bullet-riddled body lying in a pool of blood on the once immaculate tile floor. He wondered why civilians were fair game tonight but spooks like Smith were off limits. Rules, the major supposed.
'Rules are made to be broken though.' A wry grin split Rico's face as he cocked the bolt of his rifle.
Author's Note: Here's the new update, Readers. I hope you enjoy, stay tuned for another update soon. Read and review when you get the time. Thank you.