Chapter 19: Ambush

October 2, 1998

2:03 AM

Saint Jude's Hospital, Intensive Care Unit

Running a hand through his thick braided beard, Shots stomped out the cigarette he had been smoking. As a former physician he knew the dangers of his habit all too well and thus only lit up a butt when terribly nervous. One or two cigarettes were usually enough to settle his nerves and calm the butterflies in his gut – the one Shots had just ground beneath his boot heel had been his fifth.

Shots stood in the hallway just outside the room where he had left Boomer resting. It was hardly an inspiring sight, the hallway, all sterile white tile floors and walls and ceilings. Patient's rooms lined the walls but each and every one the biker looked in was empty – as if all of Saint Jude's charges had just decided to get up and go home. The staff apparently had similar ideas as well. Shots had wandered around the ICU for a few minutes after stitching up and sedating Boomer in the hopes of finding a doctor or nurse but was only successful in locating deserted corridor after deserted corridor and thus gave up his search. Besides, Blaze was supposed to be handling that anyways.

'Where the hell is he?' Shots wondered as he leaned against the wall, feeling around in his jacket pocket for another smoke – one more couldn't hurt tonight. 'He said he was going to go "snoop" around for help but that was hours ago. How long does it take before you realize everyone packed up and got the hell out of Dodge…even if it was a bunch of trauma victims. Shit, this must be Bizzaro World, nothing makes any damn sense anymore.'

Shaking his head Shots sparked up a match and started on his sixth cigarette of the night. Despite the long drags he took the calming effects of the smoke were lost on the biker. It filled his lungs and burned in his chest but Shots was unable to surrender to the fantasy that it was relaxing – really it only made him feel sick. Back in medical school, when he had first picked up the habit, Shots could sometimes pretend that the nicotine would soothe his worries but now there was no pretending that he was doing anything other than poisoning himself. Shots' worries were still firmly set in the forefront of his mind.

'Shit, I hope Shank and the other guys are alright.' Shots thought, sagging to the ground outside the operating room where Boomer lay resting, removing the cigarette from between his lips. 'I can't believe Blaze just took off like that but I guess he didn't really have any other choice. It was either put pedal to the metal or get carved up like a Thanksgiving turkey. Well, if Shank can survive weeks in the jungle with nothing but a Bowie knife and a canteen I'm sure a jungle made out of concrete won't be a much bigger challenge for him – especially with two of his crew backing him up. Damn, what in the name of hell's bathroom were those things?'

Whatever they were he didn't need to worry about them where he was at least. Saint Jude's was the safest place Shots had seen since riding into Raccoon City. He hadn't seen another soul since entering – let along jumping gorilla demons with claws and bad attitudes – and the doors he had seen, with the exception of the front entrance – were securely locked and barricaded – though exactly who had done the barricading remained a mystery. The haunting loneliness of the hospital gave it the feel of a haven, an oasis, amid the turmoil gripping Raccoon in its fist.

'Granted that's not really how you see it. Right, Doctor Keller?' Even though the mocking voice in his head was his own it still sent a shiver up Shots' spine. He hadn't used the name Dexter Keller in a long while. Not since the accident that in reality was so many years ago but in Shots' mind it seemed like only yesterday he had cost that ten-year old girl her life and future. To him, the quiet dark face of Saint Jude's was less a safe haven and more a tombstone to his career.

'It's everything I ran away from, everything I've been trying to forget.' Shots thought gazing up and down the silent halls to his left and right, overhead the lights flickered and sputtered. Many were already broken, hanging from their fixtures by a wire or two. 'I ran and ran, I put miles and states between myself and all this but now I find out that it wasn't far enough. You can never outrun your past because no matter how far and how fast you run it's always there with you, sitting in the back of your mind just waiting for a chance to leap out and yell "Surprise! I'm still with you buddy!"'

The thought brought memories with it, memories Shots had tried so hard to drown with booze and drugs and loose women. He made no effort to block them out now though, painful as they were. The memories came of a time far gone, of a promising young doctor named Dexter Keller and a beautiful little blonde girl named Mary Pinsen.

'Her hair was soft as velvet,' Shots recalled, feeling the icy cold hand of remembered failure grip his heart. 'Her eyes were like clear blue water.'

For several months Mary Pinsen and her shy smile had been regular visitors to Keller's office. She was a pretty young girl with a budding interest in astronomy and the soon-to-be star of her school's Christmas play. She was also in possession of a rather serious heart defect.

Upon diagnosing the girl it had not taken the brilliant Doctor Keller long to determine that without surgery, young Mary Pinsen would not live more than another year. Of course, Mary was understandably upset by the prospect of having to go under the knife then spend weeks recuperating in the hospital away from her mother. Hospitals were bad places, she had informed Keller during one of their sessions, they were places where they stuck tubes in you and forced you to eat terrible tasting food.

Keller had done everything in his power to try and quiet the girl's fears. At first the young doctor had taken Mary along on his rounds, letting her visit with all the people who had undergone serious treatment but were still in good spirits despite their current situation. While his patients had been good sports, smiling gently at the starry-eyed child while explaining to her that the staff were most helpful and the food hardly the thing of horror stories, the visits still seemed to do more harm than good.

Keller tried a different approach. Taking the girl by the shoulders and staring her square in the eye he had calmly told Mary that while some children find hospitals intimidating, scary places she was a big girl now and part of being a big girl was being brave enough to face your fears head on. If anything, this prospect had only terrified the youngster even worse.

Now feeling that he was at his rope's end, Dexter Keller had Mary accompany him into his office on their next visit. He pulled a chair into the center of the room and told the girl to be seated. When she had done so the physician instructed Mary to study the walls surrounding her.

There was hardly a square foot of space that had not already been taken up by an award certificate or degree from some prestigious university or school of medicine. Dexter Keller was spelled out in gold lettering across his much cherished degree in microbiology from Harvard as well as the honors certificate next to it and dozens of other papers as well, all neatly framed and nailed to the walls. The office served as a monument to education, to all the knowledge awaiting any man with a head set firmly upon his shoulders and the hunger to learn burning in his belly. Mary gazed up at each of the framed treasures with uncanny scrutiny as if seeing the awards – really seeing them and what they represented – for the first time.

"You see all these, Mary?" Doctor Keller had asked his patient, kneeling next to her with a wide grin splitting his clean-shaven face. "They only give these papers out to guys and gals with really big brains. Now, those guys and gals might not get invited to all coolest parties but they do know a thing or two about how to make sick little girls feel better."

Mary had turned her eyes – clear, blue and filled with the gentle purity of childhood – towards the man at her side and frowned. "Does that mean you don't go to a lot of parties, Doctor Dexter?"

"No," he had laughed and shook his head, "but it means I don't make mistakes either. Especially not when brave young women are involved. So, what do you say Mary? Do you trust me?"

The young girl, her cherubic face beaming with the exuberant glow of youth, took a final look at the numerous plaques and diplomas framed on the walls before nodding enthusiastically. Shots would never forget how bright the girl's smile was after his reassurances.

'She never should have trusted me.' Shots thought, his mind returning to the present long enough for him to light up his seventh cigarette. 'She should have run screaming for her life from my office and never looked back.'

Shots had never learned precisely what had gone wrong that day. It was an operation he had performed countless times before – an operation he had written his thesis on – and yet somewhere along the way he had made a mistake. Two in fact.

The first mistake he was still wholly unaware of. Perhaps he had forgotten to thoroughly sterilize one of the instruments or maybe he had been careless when sealing the incision but somehow an infection had been able to take root in Mary's small body after the surgery. The second mistake came next and sadly, unlike the first, he was all too aware of its cause.

'I didn't mean to kill her.' Shots thought, sniffing irritably while scrubbing a hand across his eyes. The smoke must have been bothering his sinuses, it did from time to time. 'I loved her! I was tired when I wrote that prescription – tired and worried that I had already fucked up and all that thinking about it made me fuck up even worse! I knew she was allergic to those antibiotics – I read her file a hundred times – but I just wasn't thinking! I was so damn tired and I just didn't take the time to think about – Jesus, oh Jesus, I murdered a little girl!'

It took Shots a moment to realize that he was holding his face in his hands, weeping bitterly into his palms as the demons of the past cut him apart like razor blades. Tears poured from his eyes but the biker no longer cared – there was no one about to see him blubber like a child anyways. A child. He had killed a child once – not intentionally but murder was murder.

Fitting, Shots thought as the sobs continued to assail him like an opponent's fists, he was stuck in town of fire and monsters; of death and darkness. Yes, his past crimes had finally caught up with him after all these years – his punishment arrived and he had been transported into the heart of Hell. Fitting, though he wondered what had delayed justice for so long. Mary Pinsen deserved justice.

There came, then, a noise from around the corner and down the hall – cautious, plodding footsteps padding slowly towards where Shots sat slouched. Standing and pressing his back to the wall, Shots listened intently, making sure that the footsteps were real and not some figment of his own shattered mind – they certainly sounded real in any event.

Shots thought about calling out Blaze's name – the man had certainly been gone long enough – but then quickly clamped his jaws shut. It was entirely possible that the footsteps belonged to his fearless leader but on the other hand they could just as likely belong to another of the trigger-happy rioters – or those mad, springing beasts that had killed Howard Peterson. Deciding to err on the side of caution, Shots hefted his shotgun from where it sat leaning against the door, swung around the corner – and found himself staring down the barrel of a gun.

An automatic rifle to be exact and the man holding it looked more than ready to squeeze the trigger. He was only about a foot shorter than the biker, his clean-shaven face was covered in a sheen of sweat and grime somehow making him look even older. The rifleman's eyes – a murky shade of blue – twitched with a wild, restrained panic as if wakened from a nightmare only to discover it was real. Shots certainly knew how that felt. A minute later – daring to take his eyes away from the weapon's business end – the biker noted the other fellow's camouflage uniform and bulging rucksack.

"Now, I know I'm seeing things." Shots sighed. "The Marines showing up to save the day would be way too much good luck for this nuthouse to allow."

"Drop your weapon!" The soldier demanded and the biker recoiled a step. "Do it now!"

'Maybe I'm not seeing things after all.' Shots thought wryly, letting his shotgun clatter to the ground as he raised his hands slowly. The way the soldier's eyes darted from left to right as if trying to look in every direction at once was enough to convince the former doctor not to toy with the man's patience. He was clearly a hairsbreadth from pulling the trigger.

"See?" Shots said as soothingly as possible, turning his empty hands over in the air for inspection. "Everything's cool, dude. Now, why don't you put that thing away before one of us – namely me – has a tragic accident?"

The soldier simply stared at Shots, the rifle shaking in his grip ever so slightly. The Psycho could see the battle going on in the other man's head revealed through his watery, unsteady blue eyes – one side telling him to trust the other side telling him to shoot first and worry about the consequences later. Those eyes revealed a great deal. Shots wondered what the newcomer had seen this night – clearly more than the rational part of his mind could take.

"Alright," the soldier said, blowing out a shaky breath, "I'm going to lower my weapon now but don't try anything cute or I'll turn you into a brick of Swiss cheese faster than you can click your heels together. Got it?"

"Got it."

With a visible deal of effort – or was it self-control? – the soldier dropped the barrel of his rifle towards the floor, keeping his eyes locked with the biker's through the whole motion. Sucking in and letting out another nervous breath, the soldier collapsed against the sidewall and mopped his damp face with the sleeve of his uniform. It was then that Shots noticed the bloodstains covering the man's clothing.

"You got a name?" The biker said gently, taking a tentative step towards the soldier and peeking over his shoulder. He was both relieved and disappointed to see there were no more where he had come from. Relieved that there were no more half-crazed G.I.s pointing guns at him and disappointed that there would be no more help for Blaze, Boomer and himself. Where was Blaze anyways?

"Arthur…Arthur Haag. I'm a captain with the Army Rangers." The soldier replied after a moment, wiping his forehead once more before nodding to the biker. "You?"

"You can call me Shots." He said and shrugged when Haag fixed him with a quizzical gaze. "Don't ask, it would take me a long time to explain the whole thing and I really don't feel like it. Army Rangers huh? Well, I don't mean to seem rude or anything but…where the hell are the rest of you guys?"

"Dead." Haag answered all too matter-of-factly and all too quickly. "They're all dead." A hazy, glazed over look passed across the captain's eyes but he hastily shook his head and the look faded.

"I should have known it was too good to be true." Shots sighed, leaning against the wall as well. "What are you guys doing here now anyways? Things have been fucked up here for weeks, what took you so long?"

"You'd have to talk to command about that one." Haag said, dropping his hefty pack to the ground before checking the magazine in his rifle. "My unit was sent in with three others to act as reinforcements for the blockades already set up in the city by the local police."

"I'm guessing things didn't go according to plan." Shots said plainly and Haag laughed – a grim chuckle without so much as a hint of humor.

"You could say that." The Ranger said, slapping the clip back into his rifle. "Something went wrong with our chopper on the way in. The engine overheated and we had to make a crash landing. I lost three men in the crash and four more after we landed. These…these things attacked us…tore my guys to shreds."

"Let me guess," Shots interjected, "these things looked kind of like scaly gorillas only they've got seven inch claws and can probably give Superman a run of his money when it comes to leaping tall buildings in a single bound?"

To his surprise, Haag simply shook his head dismissively – almost casually – as if the biker had asked whether or not he found the room too warm. "No," said Haag, scrubbing a hand across his sweaty face, "I didn't run into those little bastards until later. The things that attacked my team were…this is going to sound crazy but they were…zombies."

'Zombies? Shit.' There was nothing Shots could do to stop his surprise from showing. The former surgeon felt his eyebrows raise and his jaw drop. Surely the man was joking…but no, that haunted look in Haag's eyes and the quiver in his voice were pure enough. If clawed, leaping lizard-men were possible then why not the living dead? Every childish nightmare had been given existence in Raccoon City tonight.

"You've seen them haven't you?" Haag asked, apparently noting the other man's astonishment. "You must have if you're carrying that." The Ranger nodded to the twelve-gauge laying on the ground.

Shots only sighed and shook his head wearily. "That's another long story I'd rather not go into at the moment. Let's just say I've seen more than my fair share of what this freak show has to offer."

Haag studied the biker for another moment, his own brows drawing together tightly before shrugging his shoulders. Maybe he had already come to learn that in Raccoon it was easier to accept things at face value and puzzle over the absurdities later.

"Alright," the captain said at last, "if you say so. In any case, I'm glad to see there's another living, breathing person – I was beginning to think I was the only one left. There anyone else with you?"

"Yeah," Shots nodded over his shoulder, "two others. One's laying up in the room behind me…this town's welcoming committee was a little rough on him – and the other's scouting around this place looking for help." 'Be nice if he'd get his ass in gear and hurry back though.' "What about you? I mean, you said there were three other teams right? You can radio your boys for back-up or something."

Again, Haag shrugged and shook his head. "I don't know if any of them are still alive and even if I did I couldn't contact them now. My radio was damaged in the crash and I had to leave it behind after one of those…scaly gorillas you talked about cut down my radioman." Once more the captain's eyes glazed over with that haunted look of remembered horror. Haag blinked fiercely before going on. "The last transmission I received was from a Lieutenant Wilcott. I told him to meet my company at Precient 24, it's an emergency shelter set up for civilians, but we got cut off trying to get there on foot. Some of those…lizard-things got the jump on us, they killed Ronnie and Daniels but I managed to get away. I got turned around and, well, this was the closest building so I ran for it. Had to break a window to get inside though."

"Wait. Did you just say Precient 24?" Shots asked, feeling his excitement pick up. "On our way here my friends and I…uh…bumped into a cop, he said he was headed that way too. There were six of us then but we got split up – three of us came here and the other three…well, I'm not sure what happened to them but maybe they followed that boy in blue back to his HQ to regroup and rearm." His hope rekindled, the biker scooped up his shotgun and started down the hall. "Come on, we've got to find Blaze and get to the station."

Haag extended his free hand as Shots tried to push past and caught hold of the man's shoulder. The captain's hand was like a vise, his eyes gleaming brightly – seeming to glow with what Shots could only think of as insanity. Those trembling blue eyes showed quite plainly that the foundations of Arthur Haag's mind were crumbling into ruin.

"No way." The Ranger said the words as if issuing the biker a command. "No way are we going back out there! The streets are alive with those…those monsters, don't you understand? I saw what they did to Ronnie and Daniels, I saw what they did to my whole fucking team! No, our best bet is to sit tight here until the rescue squad shows. Bosa will send one in when he stops getting situation reports. He has to."

"I'm not leaving my friends behind." Shots said matter-of-factly, glaring the Ranger hard in the eye before wrenching himself free of the man's hold. "Now…are you coming with me or would you prefer to stay in this fine establishment?"

Haag sneered at Shots then threw back his head and laughed – a horrible, warbling, nervous sound – before shaking his head as if it were Shots who had just gone off his nut. "You're fucking crazy!" Haag snorted before chuckling in that hysterical way of his once more. "Well suit yourself. I'm staying put, I think – "

Whatever Captain Haag thought would go unknown as two crimson holes erupted in his throat, turning his words into a choked gurgle. The Ranger pitched forward, eyes wide and astounded, his dead weight knocking a startled Shots to the ground and leaving him pinned. So startled was he that not until his back hit the tiles with all the grace of a falling stone did the biker register the gunshots.

"Damn it!" Shots cursed, trying to struggle out from beneath the spasming Haag but to no avail. He managed to raise himself up just enough to see down the other end of the hall where the elevator stood – along with two very alien-looking figures.

Two men – at least they were tall enough for men, the gas masks and bulky black combat gear they wore made it impossible to distinguish gender accurately – approached with pistols drawn. Glowing red eyes peered at the squirming biker as the pair moved forward, their soft-soled boots allowing them to walk across the tiles so quietly they may as well have been made of velvet. Holstering their handguns the duo unslung the assault rifles hanging about their necks.

Whoever they were was no longer important. They had killed Haag – murdered was a better word – and they certainly did not seem intent on taking Shots out for coffee. Without a moment's hesitation the biker raised his shotgun and emptied both barrels at his aggressors.

Though the angle was off as a result of the corpse atop him and despite the face that he was one-arming the weapon, the two commandos promptly threw themselves behind the wall at the end of the hallway when Shots turned the big gauge their way. A hail of buckshot turned the concrete to dust and elicited a curse from one of the men. There was an accent to his tone – was it Mexican or Spanish? One or the other anyways.

Summoning up every ounce of strength his husky frame possessed , Shots used the time he had bought to free himself from the burden of Arthur Haag's body and roll to safety behind a corner as well. What seemed to be a fraction of a second later the chatter of automatic weapons filled the corridor and Shots could feel as much as hear the wall he crouched behind being churned to rubble by a torrent of hot lead. Cracking his shotgun open the biker fished out the two spent rounds and popped another pair in from his jacket pocket.

'Who are these fudge fingers?' Shots wondered, snapping the barrels closed once more. His heart was racing, the blood thundering in his ears like an electrical storm, every breath was a ragged gulping of air.

"I'm not one of those things!" Shots shouted, thinking that perhaps his attackers had assumed he was one of Haag's zombies but the stream of bullets continued to rain dust and stone chips down on the biker despite his cries.

Shots waited for a pause in their suppressive fire before whirling around the corner and dumping both barrels in their direction once more. Again he missed and again the duo of black-clad gunmen ducked behind their cover once more. Then, something caught the former doctor's eye.

It was Haag – somehow the man was still alive – grabbing feebly at Shot's pant leg with one hand. Shots would have called the Ranger's survival miraculous but his throat was drenched with blood and the man's eyes had already taken on a glassy sheen. The captain couldn't have had more than a minute or two left in the world of the living. Too shocked and horrified to say anything, the biker simply grabbed hold of Haag's outstretched hand and pulled him around the corner as the red-eyed murderers poked their heads out and opened fire.

"Son of a bitch!" Shots bellowed, stumbling to the ground, his ears ringing with the sounds of battle. Pulling the smoking shells from his weapon he reached into his pocket for more ammo – and came up empty. The biker groped up and down the front of his jacket, checked his jeans, but still came away empty again. He was dry. "Son of a bitch!"

Haag uttered a choked, grunting sound, weakly pushing his assault rifle in Shots' direction before his blue eyes rolled back into his skull and his chest ceased to rise. Not having any better ideas, Shots accepted the gift and fired a suppressive burst of his own around the corner – one that nearly bowled him over in the process. He was rewarded with another oath from the Latino.

With the speed and deftness of a surgeon's fingers, Shots set to work stripping the dead Ranger as quickly as he could. He all but tore Haag's flak jacket off, throwing it over his back. The man's utility belt he slung over one shoulder and the bulging rucksack over the other. Then, almost as an after thought, Shots clapped the captain's Kevlar helmet over his head.

"Fire in the hole!" Another voice called from down the hall, this one heavy with a different accent – Russian or something Eastern European anyways.

"Fire in the…" Shots muttered to himself, perplexed until the metallic clink announced the arrival of a dark spherical object and realization dawned on the biker with all the force of a blow to the stomach. "Shit on a stick!"

Shots was moving even before he finished speaking, pumping arms and legs, tearing down the dim hallway as if he meant to take flight. He hoped he just might. Up ahead the corridor branched off to the left, if he could make it that far then the wall should shield him from the blast but the burden Haag had been carrying was substantial to say the least and the grenade would detonate in less than a second. Still, it was only another foot or two. There was a chance.

The roar of the explosive sounded in Shot's ears, he could feel the heat of its deadly embrace chasing him down the hall and then he was airborne – sailing through the air and ducking safely behind the wall as shrapnel and fire shook the building. Though he took off like a bird, the husky biker landed much like a rock – crashing back to the ground heavily on one shoulder. Crying out, more in annoyance than actual pain, Shots rolled onto his back.

Dust and plaster drifted lazily to the ground in the wake of the blast. The frag had managed to knock out most of the lights in the corridor as well but a few small fires smoldering along the floor gave off some meager illumination. His ears still ringing from the explosion, it took Shots a moment to recognize the sounds of boot steps crunching on glass and a pair of muffled voices.

"Did you get him?" The Latino asked.

"Niet." The Russian stated flatly as Shots rose to his feet, shaking away the cobwebs in his skull. "No body, you see?"

"Yeah," the Latino replied in a considering voice, "well, he can't have gone far. Smith said he was taking the stairs, the other guys should be here soon."

'Other guys?' Shots thought in a near panic, hastily ducking around another corner to hide in the alcove outside a chemical storage area. He tried the knob but found it locked – no surprise there. 'Shit. No way out and two goons with some serious hardware are coming to put a toe tag on me – and more of 'em are coming too. Boomer's laid up in the room down the hall and Courageous Captain Haag is pushing up daises. Now would be a great time to show up and save my candy ass, Blaze!'

Well, if Shots had learned only one thing during his stay in Raccoon so far it was that wishful thinking got one nowhere – he was going to have to handle matters himself. Crouching in the shadows of the alcove the biker pressed the stock of Haag's rifle against his shoulder. The cautious, deliberate footsteps drew closer, he would just have to hope the masked killers – whoever they were – were grouped closely together. A black boot turned the corner, a pair of red eyes flared in the darkness and Shots squeezed the trigger.

Click, click. He was empty. Those glowing, burning red eyes turned to where the former surgeon sat in a crouch.

"Son of a whore." Shots mumbled, leaping towards the black-clad figure like an eagle descending for its killing stroke. Switching his hold on the assault rifle, Shots stuck with surprising speed. His first blow knocked his attacker's weapon across the floor, his second sent the man reeling into the opposite wall clutching what must have been a badly bruised throat. The body slumped to the ground in a boneless heap.

The hollow sound of metal against metal made the biker whirl around. Another pair of red insect-like eyes stared into his own the barrel of a rifle pressed cold steel into his belly. Shots snapped his eyes closed a second before the shot rang out.

It struck the former doctor as rather strange that a piece of molten lead punching through his gut could be so utterly painless. Perhaps he was just in shock and the pain would hit him in a moment…no, it had been far too long for that. More than a little afraid to do so, Shots cracked one eye open.

The second commando lay in a pile halfway across the corridor, the material of his vest torn to shreds, tendrils of smoke rising from the fabric to the ceiling. Turning his head to the right, Shots felt his surprise double as he caught sight of Boomer clutching the wall with one hand as if he meant to climb it. In the other he gripped his PA3 shotgun in one pale, shaking hand.

"Boomer?" Shots said, rushing to his friend's side, a mixture of relief and bewilderment flooding through his body and mind. "Take it easy, man. You look like shit."

That was putting it lightly. Boomer stood stripped to the waist, his Psychos Inc jacket replaced by a thick covering of bloodstained bandages that encircled his considerable waist. White as a ghost, sweat trickle through the hair on his face and down through that on his chest. Boomer coughed weakly as Shots supported him around the shoulders. Looking up at his friend with hazy, dilated pupils Boomer grinned.

"At least…I look better…than I feel."

"What are you doing out here?" Shots asked stupidly, going through the motions of checking the other man's pulse and eyes. In his current condition, Shots thought a sneeze would knock the man dead.

"Saving…your ass it seems." Boomer replied in a whispering tone, another muffled cough burst a blood bubble on his lip. "No need to…thank me…you're welcome. All the gunshots woke me from my catnap…and then…there was a fucking earthquake. Naturally…I figured you…were having one hell of a party out here. Seems…I was right." He nodded to the two unconscious commandos.

"I gave you enough sedative to put a horse to sleep." Shots mumbled, more to himself than his companion. The need to be elsewhere was in the forefront of the ex-physicians mind as he slung Boomer's arm around his neck and help him hobble up the hallway he had come from. "I don't know, maybe I read the dosage on the bottle wrong."

"There's an encouraging…thought." Boomer muttered sagging heavily against his friend. "Who were…the members of Team Blow-Shit-Up back there? And…where's Blaze?" Another wheezing cough rattled in the biker's lungs.

"The answer to both those questions is 'I have no idea'." Shots replied curtly. "Now hang on. We've got to get out of here before more of those dudes show up. If we're lucky we'll bump into the fearless leader on the way." 'Lucky, yeah right.'

Sadly, Shots was about to discover how true that thought was. Half-dragging Boomer back into the hall where Haag's body lay, Shots felt his heart to turn to ice as two more of the black-clad, red-eyed killers materialized around the corner, each armed with a sleek pistol. Neither of the commandos hesitated even a second before pulling the trigger.

The rain of lead sent each man sprawling to the ground, Shots felt warm liquid splash the side of his face before the tile flooring clapped him on the back of the head. The hall danced in crazy spirals before the biker's eyes, bright colors burst behind his closed lids as he struggled to blink away the fog in his brain. His chest felt as if someone had tried to run a battering ram through it but the pain was dull and distant, the cobwebs in his head making the welts and bruises blessedly diluted. Haag's vest had stopped the rounds from penetrating and Shots thought he would be all right if only he could get his legs working again but Boomer…Boomer had been in only his skin when the shooting started.

Despite the mist clouding his thoughts, Shots was able to turn his head to the right and felt his breath catch when he saw the man lying next to him. Boomer had landed on his back, his glassy eyes fixed on the ceiling though in reality they saw nothing. The four holes in his chest ensured that he would never see anything again.

'Sons of bitches.' The voice in Shots' head was oddly slurred, the thought itself murky and hard to hold onto. Shaking his head, the words came in a little clearer. 'Murdering sons of bitches!'

From his position on the floor Shots could just make out the figures of the commandos approaching from the corner of his eye. Something had changed in their posture, their footsteps were still slow and wary but their arms were lowered. Their weapons were lowered.

"Mother fuckers!" Shots bellowed the war cry as he lurched to a sitting position, reaching under his left arm at the same time to where Haag's pistol lay holstered in its utility belt. Drawing the weapon the biker opened fire, spacing the shots out between Boomer's killers. The commando on the left ducked low and threw himself away, rolling across the floor, but the fellow on the right clutched one leg and hit the ground screaming his agony.

In the next instant Shots was on his feet, swapping clips as he raced back the way he had come. He tried not to think about anything except running, except staying alive. Right now there was no room in the biker's thoughts for Boomer or Arthur Haag. Or little Mary Pinsen for that matter. He had to focus on getting away and nothing else.

Rounding the corner into the previous hallway Shots saw that the trooper he had knocked out was slowly climbing back to his feet, one gloved hand pressed to the side of his head, the other gripping the wall for support. His instincts taking over, Shots lashed out with one foot, driving the treads of his boot into the side of the commando's head and crushing it up against the wall. The black-clad figure sagged to the ground once more.

"Asshole." The biker seethed between clenched teeth as he darted up the hall once more.

A thunderous pop rung out behind Shots and he found himself stumbling to maintain his balance. Icy pain encircled and consumed his right leg like wildfire. A scream shook his eardrums as he whirled about, bumping into the wall to stay upright – his scream.

Turning his head in the direction of the noise, Shots could see the trooper Boomer had shot regaining his feet unsteadily, raising his pistol with one hand. His vest must have kept the pellets from penetrating.

Shots brought his own weapon up at the same time and returned fire but the man proved surprisingly swift, rolling behind the corner to his right. The pain in the biker's shin where the bullet had exited was sharp and acute, making the former doctor feel a great deal like he had blundered into a bear trap, but the shouting voices and heavy footfalls from behind lent the man strength born of adrenaline. Gritting his teeth against the hot agony in his leg, Shots tore up the hallway as fast as his injury would allow.

The intensive care wing of Saint Jude's was much like a maze: twisting corridors leading to more twisting corridors; empty passageways to empty passageways. Like the rat in the maze, Shots raced up and down cold, deserted stretches of hallway, rounded corners and darted from junction to junction and everywhere the sounds of his pursuers followed. He knew that to slow down would mean death but blood loss was making him dizzy and the fire eating up his leg burned hotter with every step. Shots was just beginning to think that maybe death wasn't such a bad alternative when compared with the possibility of stumbling about in an empty hospital waiting to bleed out, when he saw it at long last.

The word 'EXIT' flashed in bold red letters above a single, glass-front door leading into a gray painted stairwell. Feeling a small spark of hope take root in his chest, Shots limped towards the stairway. The spark of hope turned to surprise though, as the door swung inwards before Shots' hand was anywhere near the knob.

Framed in the archway was yet another of the red-eyed murderers, this one much taller and wider than the four behind the biker and carrying an incredibly large machine gun. 'Take him down.' The thought took hold in Shots' mind and then he was flying, sailing through the air and closing the distance between himself and the startled commando. Crashing into the figure, Shots wrapped his arms around the man's shoulders and then his momentum was carrying them both backwards, sending them tumbling end over end down the stairs.

There was a sickening thud as the commando's head connected with the bottom of the first landing, his unconscious body conveniently breaking the biker's fall. Shaking his head as he rose to a pair of wobbly legs, Shots could hear voices drawing closer from above.

"This way," one said in a voice too cool and robotic to have been spoken by a human, "I sent Sven to cut him off."

"Good plan," Shots mumbled into his beard, turning Sven over and unclipping a grenade from his belt, "but backfires are a real bitch."

Pulling the pin free, Shots waited only a moment for the pounding footsteps to draw nearer before lobbing the explosive through the open door. He ran, the explosion seconds later little more than white noise to his ears as the steps passed beneath his feet.

Shots tried to focus on running, on blocking out the pain but somehow other thoughts snuck in below the surface of his mind. Thoughts of ghosts: a frightened soldier, an injured friend and a little girl. An innocent little girl. Shots ran on, hoping that he might live long enough to one day exorcise all the demons haunting him.

Author's Note: Sorry for the delay, Readers. Here's the next update and hopefully I'll be able to get another one up fairly shortly. Anyways, I hope you enjoy. Please read and review, tell me what you like and what you don't. I can take it.