Chapter 17: Autographs and Ammunition
October 2, 1998
2:00 AM
Preceint 24
Skip Francis could hardly believe his eyes. Seated at the desk across from him, one bandaged leg propped up on a chair, was the greatest baseball legend of his generation. Kyle Madigan, home run hero of the Pittsburgh Pirates, was no more than four feet away.
Of course, Kyle no longer seemed to be using his real name anymore. The name sewn across the front of his jacket – an absolutely boss thing with the design of a skull breathing blue smoke on the back and the words "Psychos Incorporated" stenciled below – read "Slugger". The nickname certainly fit but Skip still wondered what in the world an all-star like Kyle Madigan was doing running with a group of thugs like the two other men seated near him. Only one of the others wore the Psychos Inc jacket but both he – his name seemed to be Tech – and Madigan seemed to look to the other fellow for direction.
Currently, Doctor Burke was tending to the trio. He had wrapped a bandage around Madigan's sprained ankle and refastened Tech's sling. Now, the doctor was in the process of cleaning and bandaging the tattered mass of skin on the third man's – the others referred to him as Shank – left arm. Slugger, Tech and Shank…certainly a colorful lot Skip thought.
Peering intently at Madigan as Burke went about his work Skip nodded to himself, that had to be the same man he had grown up watching play ball. He had seen every game Madigan had played on TV; cheered at every run batted in and gaped at every ball driven out of the park and into next week by the man. Skip would have wagered his last stitch of clothing – the only worldly possessions he had left since being driven from his apartment and the destruction of his Suburban – that underneath that Viking-style beard and few extra pounds was one of the greatest right-fielders to ever play the sport.
"Damn it, doc!" Shank groaned as Burke began to tie off the bandage. "Not so tight, I have a lot of good memories with this arm you know?"
"Ain't that the truth." Madigan – or Slugger as he called himself now – smirked, making a fist and pumping it up and down over his crotch. Both Shank and Tech nearly dropped to floor laughing, Burke merely muttered an apology and set to loosening the cotton dressing.
Greg Burke seemed like a pretty righteous dude to Skip, if a little uptight but all doctors seemed to be that way in his experience. Uptight or not you couldn't help but respect a man who was up at two in the morning, tirelessly working away with what meager resources he had, tending to the injuries of total strangers. Besides, Zeke said the doc had a plan to get them all out of the city and Skip definitely respected anyone who could do that. Heck, if Burke's plan worked he'd do the man's laundry for the rest of his natural life without complaint.
Yawning into his fist, Skip shook his head. He was tired – everyone in the station was – but there was no way he was going to get a wink of sleep tonight. After everything he had seen tonight he was nervous to so much as blink. 'You could hit me with an elephant tranq and I still wouldn't go down. No way am I sleeping, not here, no way.'
The young man had moved to Raccoon for two reasons: to escape his parents and obtain a degree as a liberal artist. Unfortunately, he had to arrive in town only a few months before everyone went stark raving mad…though butt-fucking crazy was a better term. Granted, that did suit his luck.
Skip had never been a very fortunate guy. His last girlfriend had dumped him the day of their graduation and his car had broken down while driving to a rather important job interview last month. Raccoon City becoming a death trap was just the crown jewel on a myriad of bad experiences.
'Bad?' Skip thought, watching as Burke finished with Shank's arm and moved to double-check Tech's sling. 'No, this is so far beyond bad that there isn't even a word for it. People eating people, those things in the parking garage and then a fucking giant to top it all off! Not to mention those things that attacked the station a few hours ago. Zeke said they looked like frog-gorillas…with claws. Yeah, this is definitely worse than bad.'
Skip tightened his hold on the baseball bat as if it were a talisman at the remembrance of the decaying hands reaching for him in the elevator and the horrid, scuttling beasts that had cut his car up like a tin can. For the first time that night Skip Francis wondered why he was still alive.
He didn't know his ass from his elbow in a gunfight and bravery was not something the young man carried a great stock of. By all rights Skip figured he should have been killed at least three or four times by now – or at least lost his mind. Yet, miraculously, neither had happened. This made Skip eternally grateful to whatever power had sought to spare him – and just as suspicious. It did not fit his luck at all.
In truth, the young man knew the answer to his unspoken question. He needed only turn his head around to see the reason for his survival. Zeke Wilcott stood back there, smiling as he conversed with Rachel, who looked pale and wan but lucid all the same. Every so often though the lieutenant would shift his gaze up from the pilot's waxen face and look uneasily at the door to Captain Brown's office on the second floor.
Skip wondered why the Ranger looked so anxious, as if he expected someone – or, more likely, some thing knowing Raccoon City – to dart out of the room at any given moment and attack. Again, knowing what the city was like Skip guessed that was not such an unlikely prospect but as far as he knew the only people occupying the room now were one of the SWAT troopers they had run into outside , a stout looking woman and the burly Captain Brown himself. It was true that Skip did not know any of them well at all but they hardly seemed the types to launch an ambush on the group.
Then again, if whatever was going on up there made Zeke nervous Skip supposed it should do the same for him. The lieutenant was definitely a solid dude: he had a lightning quick mind and nerves that just would not bend. If it hadn't been for Zeke and his team showing up when they had Skip figured he'd probably still be squatting in that filthy elevator shaft trying to make his pathetic supply of provisions hold out while hoping against hope that help would arrive soon. Either that or dead.
'Well, help is here now.' Skip thought, nodding his head resolutely. 'All I have to do is stick with the army guys until we get to the hospital Burke was talking about and everything will be cool. We'll be out of this shit hole in no time, I'll catch a flight to New York, find a hotel, have a shower and then give my folks a call. Their offer to move back in anytime I wanted seemed a little overbearing at the time but it's sure going to come in handy now. God, I hope the doc's plan works.'
Well, Zeke seemed to trust Doctor Burke, so Skip figured he should too. The doc's plan would work and he would be home faster than he could blink. And Skip Francis would not be returning empty handed either.
Rising from his chair the young man walked slowly over to where Madigan rested puffing a cigarette between his lips. The closer he came the louder his heartbeat until Skip could barely hear above the rush of blood in his ears. Madigan did not look up once as he approached but that was hardly surprising to the young man; why would a legend like Kyle Madigan – whatever he was now – pay any notice to a nobody like himself?
"E-excuse me," Skip said as he crossed the distance, jamming his hands into the pouch of his sweatshirt to hide how badly they were shaking. The young man thought it strange that for once that night he was not trembling as a result of blind terror but because he was star struck. It was ironic in an odd way. "Mi-mister Madigan?"
Kyle's – Slugger's – head shot up at the sound of his name and he fixed Skip with a look that was half-surprised, half-angry. Almost as quickly as the look bloomed on his face it vanished and was replaced by a blank stare. Madigan's eyes still flickered though – yes, he was certainly surprised and apparently none too happy about it either.
"I don't know who you're talking about, kid." He said and though the man's voice was as plain as his face there was an undertone to his denial that made Skip doubt its authenticity.
"Come on," the young man chortled a nervous laugh then instinctively took a step backwards. The look in Madigan's eyes was a very dangerous one indeed, not to mention that the other two biker's – Shank and Tech – were directing similar glances his way as well. "You've got to be Kyle Madigan, I saw all your games man! Your batting average was .290, you hit two grand slams in a single game and stole five bases in another. Oh, and let's not forget how you totally robbed Bonds of a homerun with that over the wall grab! That was some sweet shit."
"Look kid," Shank said, walking over next to Slugger and crossing his hairy arms over his impressive chest. Skip took another step back. "You've got the wrong guy so why don't you just waltz back over to your chair and have – "
"Nah, Shank," Madigan interjected, laying a hand on his friend's arm and Skip was more than a little relieved to see the man smile as well. He looked more amused than dangerous now. "It's cool. You've got a pretty good memory kid but that was all a long time ago. I buried Kyle Madigan with his wife years ago."
"Oh, yeah, I uh heard about that on the news." Skip scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, he had never meant for the subject of the man's murdered wife to come up. "I-I'm really sorry for your loss – I am – and I know that it's been quite a while since you've played the game but I would really appreciate it if you would –uh – you know, maybe give me an autograph?"
Madigan just stared at the younger man for a moment, studying him with that half-grin twisting his bearded face. Shank glanced back and forth between both men, looking nervous but obviously trusting his friend to use discretion. Skip continued to scratch at the back of his neck until he realized he was fidgeting and promptly stuffed his hand back into the pouch. Madigan laughed then and gave a short nod.
"Sure kid," he said, "you seem like an alright kind of dude. I'll sign my name for you but only under one condition."
"S-sure!" Skip blurted out, hoping that despite his broad smile and wide eyes he didn't look too much like a giddy fan. "What is it?"
"I'll give you my John Hancock if you trade me that little beauty over there." Madigan said, pointing one thick finger to where Skip's baseball bat lay propped against the leg of his chair. "Earlier this evening I lost my own stick – I won't bore you with the details – and that looks like a pretty solid piece of lumber. So, do we have a deal?"
Skip didn't have to think twice. He hurriedly snatched up the bat and handed it to the other man with a grin. "Deal." He said.
"Now we're talking." Madigan said, hefting the Louisville wood, testing its weight and giving it a short practice swing. With a smile and approving nod the biker rested the bat in his lap and turned to the desk beside him. Picking up a pen, Madigan lifted one of the file folders off the ground tore the cover off then set to work jotting across the front.
"Here you go, kid. Enjoy." Slugger said with a smirk after he had finished, handing the folder cover over to Skip.
Murmuring his thanks the young man eagerly grabbed hold of the scrap that contained such a precious treasure. Smiling, Skip felt his heart hammer with excitement as he looked down at the sheet that held the object of his desire. True, it was just a name but it was the name of a sport's hero most thought dead and gone.
Penned across the folder cover in a large, flowing script was the name Slugger. The young man read the word twice just to make sure he wasn't seeing things. Sadly, he was not. Looking up, face agape, Skip could see Madigan chuckling. What a grand joke it must have been to him.
With a defeated sigh Skip sagged back into his chair and set the scrap of paper down. He had become a victim of logic. Madigan had said that he had left his old self behind after his wife's murder and donned a new identity as Slugger. So, when he said he would hand over his John Hancock it was only natural to give the one he was now using – Slugger. Of course, he hadn't expected Skip to realize that and he had been right.
'Well, at least my luck is back to normal.' Skip though, slouching in his chair while Slugger and his companions shared a good laugh. 'I'm minus a bat and up a worthless autograph. It figures. Maybe – '
The voice in Skip's head was silenced as a gunshot resounded in the lobby, echoing from up above on the second floor. Everyone threw back their chairs and leapt to their feet, the assembled SWAT troopers brought their weapons up, scanning in the direction of the sound. Rachel and Zeke did likewise.
A few moments later the door to Captain Brown's office opened and the man himself stepped out. William seemed to have undergone a kind of metamorphosis: his shoulders were slumped, his head hung low, tears burned in his eyes. Drained was the best way to describe the captain's appearance, Skip thought.
William looked up then and a woman's wailing filled the doorway behind him. The captain did not flinch at the sound, though everyone else did. He merely fixed those assembled with that hollow, watery gaze and said in a tone as cold and unfeeling as stone: "Jacob Foster is dead."
- Page Break -
Yawning, Zeke glanced at his watch. It was just before two in the morning but there was still a great deal of work to be done before he could hunker down for an hour or two of shut-eye. Besides, after the night he had been having the Ranger thought an hour or two of sleep was an overly optimistic estimation.
The work was refreshingly soothing to the lieutenant though, lost in the study of a map of the station that William had dug out of his office, Zeke was able to lose himself in his appointed task for several minutes at a time. Burning the entrances and exits of the parking garage into his brain, along with all connecting corridors and passageways, Zeke found himself able to forget – momentarily anyways – about the roving, flesh-eating creatures outside the haven of Precient 24 or the faces of all the friends he had lost to them. To the lieutenant, he was simply puzzling over a map, marking down all the details in his head, as he prepared for a mission – something he had done countless times before. Perhaps the familiarity of such a mundane task was the only thing keeping him sane, Zeke wondered.
"Sir?"
Lieutenant Wilcott looked up from behind his seat at the reception desk at the sound of Scott's hesitant voice. The radioman's face was tight and grim, anxiety dancing madly beneath the surface of his gaze. Zeke sighed, more bad news.
"What is it, Owens?" The Ranger mumbled absently, his attention back to the floor plan stretched out across the table's surface.
"I tried to get through to command again like you said, lieutenant," Scott replied, fiddling with the shoulder strap of his M-4. "I still can't get through. It's the weirdest thing, sir. Sometimes I can get a clear signal and other times everything is scrambled up worse than a trailer park in a twister."
Pausing in his study of the department's blueprints, Zeke looked up at a rather haggard Scott Owens with a considering look. The sergeant was one of the most capable and competent soldiers Zeke had met in his entire career, if Scott didn't know what was going on with his own radio the lieutenant knew he should be worried.
"Any idea what could be causing the interference?" Zeke asked, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands in his lap. "Maybe the radio was damaged in the crash."
"Nah, I checked it while we were back at Skip's place and it was in primo shape." Scott said, pursing his lips and shaking his head. Then the sergeant fixed Zeke with a truly tortured look, sweat beading along his forehead. "My guess is that we're being jammed."
"Jammed?" Zeke's voice was somewhere between a snort and a laugh. "How could someone be jamming us? The only ones that know we're here are the guys back at headquarters and they're over three hundred miles away. Even the cops didn't know we were coming for Christ's sake."
"No," Scott agreed, wiping a hand across his face. Zeke didn't think he had ever seen a man look so stressed outside the heat of battle. "No, but their chief did and the mayor too. Maybe they told someone."
"Who exactly is 'someone'? Come on, Scott, this is ridiculous." Zeke said, doing his best to ignore the fact that a great deal of what had transpired already would be deemed ridiculous if related to any person with even a shred of sanity. "Even if they did know, why would a couple of bureaucrats have any reason to try and complicate things for us? And who would they hire to do so anyways? I've talked to Captain Brown a fair bit and he seems to think Brian Irons is more than a little nutty but I doubt the man has the means to build a jamming tower just to make it a pain in the ass for us to call home."
"That's just it though!" Scott breathed, dropping his voice to a harsh whisper as he leaned across the desk. "If the source of the interference was coming from inside the city I either wouldn't be able to get a signal at all or we would have escaped the jamming signal one we got far enough away." Scott's eyes burned brightly, kindled with anxiousness and a deep-seated suspicion Zeke had never seen in the man before. Why was he acting so conspiratorial all of a sudden? "Now, lieutenant we've run across to the other side of this city and I'm still getting nothing but static nine times out of ten so we sure haven't outrun whoever or whatever is jamming us. On the other hand, we've received a transmission from Haag and gotten one out to General Bosa so that means the interference isn't continuous."
Zeke raised an eyebrow the man was talking in circles. "What are you trying to say, Owens?"
"What I'm saying," Scott held his tongue for a moment, glancing over each shoulder before continuing, "is that it has to be a local source, real close. If someone had a portable jamming device they could turn it on and off whenever they wanted to block a transmission. They wouldn't have to be far from the radio – they'd probably just have to be in the same room with it."
Realization began to dawn on the lieutenant then as he looked up into Owens' drawn face and felt his own blood turn to ice. "The radio's been on the fritz since we went down in the center of town." Zeke said slowly, his voice distant even to his own ears. "If you're right then that means whoever's been blocking our transmissions is someone in the unit." Scott nodded looking as grim as Zeke felt. The lieutenant leaned forward in his chair staring the other man intently in the face. "Scott…that makes no sense though! Why would one of our own guys try and keep us from radioing home?"
"Your guess is as good as mine, boss." Scott offered with a helpless shrug.
Zeke closed his eyes, pressing his fingertips against his temples as he felt the thunderclouds of a coming headache roll into his skull. 'As if I didn't have enough to worry about already.' The lieutenant thought. 'Zombies trying to have us for dinner, a wandering giant trying to dice us up into confetti and now this. Nothing going on in this city makes any sense. Is it really too much to hope that one small bit of good luck would find its way to me tonight?' Probably but Zeke could curse his luck later.
"You haven't told anyone else about this have you?" Lieutenant Wilcott asked glancing back up at Scott while hoping he did not look as exhausted as he felt. Sergeant Owens shook his head the expression on his worn features suggested that Zeke must have been crazy to ever consider such a thing. "Good. Until we have some concrete proof I think we should keep this between ourselves – the last thing we need is everyone getting paranoid of each other. Trust is the one thing we seem to have going our way tonight."
"Are you sure that's a good idea, lieutenant?" Scott asked, leaning in, his tone low and conspiring once more. "If someone is compromising our ability to complete this mission then we – "
" – can only offer hearsay and speculation." Zeke said raising a hand to silence his subordinate. "Trust me Scott, if you're going to bring up charges like that then you better have more to back them up then a hunch. Just keep a lid on it for the time being and stay sharp." The lieutenant's eyes softened then and he exhaled a defeated sigh. "Besides, this mission was a failure from the time we flew into town."
Again, Scott glanced over either shoulder – obviously wary of eavesdroppers – before responding. "Lieutenant, I don't think that's wise. We should – "
"It's not your call, sergeant!" Zeke said, firing the man a piercing look and chastising tone. In truth, the lieutenant hadn't meant it to come out so harsh but he was beyond exhausted and Scott Owens should not have been questioning the judgment of his commander. If they were going to make it out of Raccoon City alive then everyone was going to need to have to remember what the chain of command was and to do as they were told. "It's my decision and I've made it. Now, I'm going to go and check on Rachel, if anyone needs me you know where to find me. I suggest you get back on the horn and try to raise General Bosa again – I want to know how things are going on his end."
For a moment Zeke feared that Scott might protest once more. The radioman's brown eyes narrowed and hardened; his lips pressed together in a tight line. Most alarmingly of all, Zeke could see Owens' fingers twitch at his side as if ready to make a fist and strike out. Lieutenant Wilcott breathed a little easier when Scott inclined his head slightly and gave a quick salute.
"Copy that, boss." Sergeant Owens said, before turning sharply on his heel and stalking over to the corner where he had left his radio.
With a considering gaze, Zeke watched the man go. In his heart he knew Scott was a good soldier but his defiant outburst certainly hinted behavior towards the contrary. After a moment, Zeke simply sighed and shook his head, the situation was just making everyone a little stir crazy – that was all. Scooping up his rifle and folding the map under one arm Zeke marched off towards the closed set of double-doors behind him.
On his way out Zeke noticed that the other occupants of the room were still hard at work – at least he didn't need to worry about them questioning orders…yet. The lieutenant had had several of the weapons crates brought out from the backroom, Wesley and Pierce went through them now, making clips as well as cleaning and checking each weapon. Coop was nowhere in sight, which was good for it meant he was where Zeke had left him – watching the front of the station with Captain Brown's men. If another assault was coming then the corporal's SAW would be useful for suppressive purposes.
The two police officers the Rangers had stumbled upon – Sam Brocket and Kathryn Ward – were also present along with Officer Gabbor, arranging sheets over the bodies of the three dead SWAT troopers. Zeke studied the trio for a moment as they went about their macabre task – faces taut and pale but resolute all the same. They must have known their fallen comrades would never receive a proper burial – not for a long while in any event – and yet they were still willing to do all they could to honor the memories of their friends.
Shaking his head – now was not the time to dwell on such things as who would die and be left unburied as a gruesome testament to the insanity of Raccoon – Zeke stepped through the doors. There was somber feel to this part of station though Zeke could not put his finger on what it was exactly – perhaps it was the immense amounts of paperwork scattered so carelessly across the dusty tiles or the pictures of loved ones laying among the shards of their destroyed frames or just the relative emptiness of the hall itself – but there was an almost tangible quality to the room that spoke of panic and abandonment. The Ranger could not think of a more fitting mood given the situation.
Surveying the wide area Zeke could see William's men hard at work sorting through stainless steel weapons cases; cleaning and loading firearms for the trek through the garage just as Wes and Ryan were doing in the front lobby. Skip and the bikers – members of a gang with the cute little moniker of Psychos Incorporated – were also present, as was Doctor Burke who was currently in the process of tying a fresh cotton dressing around the arm of one of the Psychos. Judging by the rather large knife protruding from the man's boot it was Shank who was in need of the doctor's ministrations. Skip watched the doctor go about his rounds, staring at one of the bikers with a dumbfounded expression. Well, maybe the kid had a right to be awed by the fact that there was still other living, breathing people in the city after the night he had had, Zeke figured.
Turning his back on the group of men, Lieutenant Wilcott caught sight of his true target. Rachel Parker lay stretched out across two chairs, her behind planted firmly in one while the other supported her wounded leg. There was a fresh bandage on the injury and a little more color brightened the young woman's cheeks. Rachel still looked far from healthy though, her smooth skin was covered in a sheen of sweat that gave her a sickly glow in the pale light. Despite this, the pilot's eyes were the worst; tight with pain and hinting desperately at the agony she kept within. Zeke smiled warmly as he approached and took a seat on the edge of the desk beside the young woman but still found it hard to meet that watery gaze.
"How are you doing, kiddo?" Zeke asked, still smiling as he set his rifle and the map down.
"First of all," Rachel replied with one her trademark half-grins, "don't call me that. Secondly, I'm hanging in there…all things considered."
Zeke nodded grimly and felt his smile slip. "Hanging in there" was a far cry from being fine but at least Rachel was telling him the truth. The girl knew her limits and was willing to deal with them, things would have been much worse if she were going about insisting that she was all right for fear of slowing the group down.
'I've got enough to worry about without having to keep Rachel from overexerting herself after all.' Zeke thought, the smile gone from his lips, replaced now by a thin line. 'What if Burke's plan doesn't work? What if only one of the helicopters is at the hospital – or neither? What if we all get killed in the parking garage? What if one of us gets killed in the parking garage, how am I going to deal with that? What if…'
"Stop it." So lost in his own thoughts was the lieutenant that the sound of Rachel's voice made him reach for his rifle.
"What?" Zeke asked, swallowing his heart and staying his hand in its passage across the desk. "Stop what?"
"Thinking." Rachel replied firmly, narrowing her eyes as if the lieutenant was a young boy and she had caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. "You're acting all zoned out and whenever you press your lips together that tightly I can tell you're thinking."
"Sorry," Zeke offered a weak laugh, ashamed at how phony it felt – and sounded. "It is part of my job description though. I assure you that I try to do as little thinking as I can on my days off."
"Quit joking around." Rachel said, her tone all business. "Stop thinking about what's happened and start thinking about what's going to happen. Stop thinking about Judges and Sullivan and the rest – feeling guilty is not going bring them back and it certainly won't help us. There are a lot of people depending on you now, focusing on things you can't change won't do anyone any favors – you least of all."
Lieutenant Wilcott nodded dumbly and stared down at his bootlaces. He certainly never would have thought Major Parker could be so blunt. Could she really have meant everything she said though? Just forget about Sullivan and the others like it never happened? Maybe she did and maybe she didn't but Rachel was right about one thing: there were a lot of people depending on him.
Going into the mission probably no one had been looking to Zeke Wilcott for guidance, now over twenty lives rested on his shoulders. More responsibility to sit on his back, more duty to weigh him down – more deaths to burden his conscience should he fail. Staring at his boots, Zeke wondered what he had ever done to deserve such punishment. Rachel's soft, warm hand across his own brushed away the lieutenant's dark ponderings.
"I believe in you, Zeke." She said her voice light and timid but wholly sincere. He smiled back at her in much the same fashion.
"Maybe I should give that a try myself." The lieutenant replied, clasping the girl's hand in his own, locking gazes with her. The warmth of Rachel's bare skin against his own turned Zeke's blood to fire, the electricity in her large, bright eyes stirring his heart to a quicker pace. For a moment – one foolish, reckless moment – Zeke thought about trying to steal a kiss.
'Great time to be thinking about that, lieutenant.' The chastising voice in the Ranger's head was oddly reminiscent of Sam Brocket's and Zeke quickly released Rachel's hand, diverting his eyes at the same time. Awkwardly clearing his throat, Zeke smoothed his uniform and picked up his rifle, trying to seem casual but certain that he was failing miserably. 'Nothing is simple.' The thought was fast-becoming the Ranger's personal motto.
"Where's Captain Brown?" Zeke asked after clearing his throat once more, not daring to look Rachel in the eye. "I wanted to go over our strategy once we reach the garage again just to make sure there aren't any surprises."
"He went up to his office awhile ago," Rachel answered, nodding absently up the staircase, her delicate features drawing together tightly. "He went up with one of the SWAT people we found in the alley – the sick one…I think his name is Jacob. There was a woman too. I-I think she might be his wife, lieutenant."
"Shit." Zeke muttered beneath his breath, shaking his head. It was bad enough the man was going to turn into a member of the living dead but now his spouse would have to watch the slow and agonizing transformation of the man she loved. How long did Jacob have left, Zeke wondered, an hour maybe? Even that was probably being optimistic.
"Do you think he'll be all right, Zeke?" Rachel asked and the quiver in her voice forced the lieutenant to regard her more seriously. Her thin brows were drawn together tightly, concern and fear forming a misty tempest in the pools of her eyes. Zeke sighed.
"I don't know," he replied honestly, shaking his head, "but we'll do everything we can for him, okay?" 'Until we have to shoot him, you mean.' Zeke shook the thought away, whatever was going to happen would happen, it was out of his hands now.
Rachel nodded sadly – and jumped when a gunshot thundered from above. Reacting almost automatically Zeke brought his rifle up – saw Rachel draw her pistol – and trained the weapon towards the source of the noise. A moment later, the door to William's office swept open, the burly captain framed in the doorway, and woman's sobbing filled the air. William's head was bowed, his face red and damp with tears.
'Oh, no.' Zeke thought, slowly lowering his M-4 as Captain Brown opened his mouth to speak.
"Jacob Foster," William said, "is dead."
Author's Note: Well, it's been awhile but here's a new update for you my Readers. Hopefully I'll be able to get another one up soon that will describe Jacob's death in depth so I hope that you will stay tuned and keep reading. Please read and review when you get a chance, I live for your feedback. Enjoy!