Chapter 26: Into The Forest
October 2, 1998
9:30 PM
The Arklay Forest
Rain fell in fat drops between the branches of oak and fir trees, turning the ground into a muddy soup beneath the B.O.N.E.S. troopers boots. A harsh, biting wind whistled through the trees like the voice of a ghost, stirring the blanket of red and orange leaves littering the forest floor, drawing more down from the canopy overhead. Moonlight painted everything in a soft silver glow, making Rico feel even colder somehow. Cold and miserable. Oh, and hungry too, it felt like his last meal had been years ago.
Almost outta here though, he reminded himself, watching his boots to avoid snapping any thin twigs or the like beneath his feet. If any of Umbrella's pets had made it this far then moving silently was priority numero uno. Fighting the freaks was difficult enough on its own, fighting them in the dark, in a rainstorm, in the middle of a forest – well, that was not exactly a pretty picture in itself either. We just need to hit the AMRS, download the files, activate the self-destruct and take one of the choppers back home. I can change my drawers, swig a beer and maybe catch two frigin' minutes of sleep – if we ever even get to the bloody outpost that is.
Rico glanced back to where Sven was lumbering with the girl over one shoulder, holding the M-60 in his free hand, and felt his mood darken further. Jumping head-first into some hillbilly American's trap was insulting enough but then Smith had to go and pull some action movie hero bullshit and take someone hostage. A hostage! Their orders were to eliminate any survivors not lug them through the woods like a sack of grain.
What they were supposed to do with the prisoner Smith hadn't made clear, only saying that the girl would serve as "leverage" in case the army dipshits showed up again. Rico would eat his bootlaces if they did. Everyone of them was just bits and pieces now, dead when Petrovsky hit the switch and turned Saint Jude's into a bonfire – but Smith didn't see it that way of course.
Another thing the supervisor had neglected to mention was what, exactly, they were to do with her once it came time to jet. Taking the girl along was certainly out of the question but Smith hadn't suggested killing her either. The "Smith" Rico Da Silva knew was hardly a soft man – during his time under the man Rico had once thought he ate iron for dinner and steel for dessert – but if he couldn't bring himself to pop the girl then Rico would. He had killed women before, it was difficult at first – a little – but as with all things it became easier with practice.
The smell of wet wood and grass floated up to the major's nostrils, reminding him of the air freshener he kept hanging from his rearview mirror. He would have given anything to be back in his living room with his feet kicked up, a beer in his hand and a cute piece of ass on his lap – but you didn't earn your pay that way. Time as money as the saying went and they were lagging something serious.
Rico paused at the side of the trail they were walking and allowed Foller to file past him followed by Petrovsky then Sven and finally Mick. The men moved in a rigid line, sopping wet but heads up and weapons ready all the same. He kept their discipline honed to a fine point, letting your guard down on a B.O.N.E.S. op was the same as signing your own death sentence. When Smith walked up, Rico fell into line beside him.
"The girl is slowing us down," he said softly, keeping his eyes on the stretch of dirt track ahead, doing his best to ignore the pitter-pat of raindrops running down his mask. "She's hurt bad – Mick said she's probably dying, internal wounds or some such. You sure picked a fine candidate to take captive…sir. Oh yeah, before I forget, what were you thinking back there when you ditched your rifle?"
"It was unnecessary baggage, major," Smith said casually, the silver light slipping through treetops glinting off the sample case in his hand. "I have the variant strain and that's all that should be of any importance to you. As for the young lady," he shrugged, "she may yet prove to be of some use. Now, if you're quite finished, why don't you prove to be of some use by watching our flank, major."
That was it, Rico decided Smith had just snapped the very last straw. No more sneers behind his back. It was time for Smith to meet his maker up close and personal.
Glaring at his supervisor, Rico drifted into the back of the line, giving the appearance of a good little subordinate, allowing Smith to take three more steps before raising his rifle and pulling the trigger. The bark of the AK-47 shattered the silence of the forest – dangerous, but well worth the price – the troopers ahead of him skidded to a halt, whirling on the source of the nose. Five holes had erupted in Smith's back, spilling out blood and puffs of smoke. The supervisor plodded forward one more step before dropping face first into the muck.
"How's that for useful, you son of a bitch?" Rico asked the corpse then laughed as the others looked on. Most likely they were surprised by his actions, perhaps even a little frightened of the consequences, but all Rico could feel was relief: that a man like "Smith" had, at long last, been given the fate he deserved and, as a plus, was no longer around to gum up Rico Da Silva's operation. Besides, killing a supervisor wasn't such a big deal – they faced the same risks as any B.O.N.E.S. operative and had succumbed to them before.
"Gentlemen," Rico said, keeping his voice loud to be heard clearly above the beat of the rain, "Supervisor Smith never made it to the Arklay Forest – in fact he never even made it to Saint Jude's. One of the Shaigans surprised us in the sewers and though our efforts to save such a…distinguished…man were truly heroic he nevertheless fell victim to his injuries minutes before. We mourned his loss then moved on to complete the rest of our objectives."
The others nodded their understanding and Foller even laughed. The Austrailian had a love for murder and conniving – maybe too much so but for now they could all be trusted to keep their tongues behind their teeth about Smith's execution. They were good soldiers – for the most part – who followed orders and didn't ask too many questions. With Smith gone Rico no longer needed to worry about their loyalties being manipulated anyway.
"I'll just take this off your hands." Rico said, crouching down to remove the sample case from Smith's hand. The body became a blur, pain rocketed up his arm and the AK fell from his fingers. There was no time to think let alone reach for another weapon as strong fingers wrapped around Rico's neck, crushing the life from him.
How? Was all Rico could wonder as he choked and spluttered, grasping at the hand that was strangling him to death. He pried at the fingers on his throat but they might as well have been made of granite. They felt made of granite. Startled cries rose from his men and he could see Mick Murphy actually fall flat on his butt out of the corner of his eye. How?
It was Smith who held him a full six inches off the ground…with one hand. Smith held him but Smith was dead, Rico had shot the man moments ago, saw him fall. No one survived when Rico Da Silva put a bullet through them. It was impossible, it was…
Breathless and dizzy, his strength failing, Rico had no air to gasp when his bullet casings – all five of them – fell out of Smith's chest. The shells clattered to the ground, still wet with the man's blood. Mick Murphy scrambled backwards, muttering what sounded like prayers beneath his breath…While the rest just looked on as if glued to the ground!
"Shoot…shoot him." Rico managed to choke out before Smith tightened his already iron grip, fresh agony tore through the major.
"Your men would just be wasting ammo, major." Smith said coolly. Rico coughed in answer. "But if you must then you must." No one so much as raised a weapon.
"You're…dead." Rico said, stars bursting behind his eyelids now.
"And you're stupid!" Smith snarled, his icy exterior turning to quicksilver in an instant. A bad sign. "You're a blundering incompetent! I could snap your neck like a pencil, major, but…sadly…I require you to live awhile longer."
Before he was even through speaking Smith threw Rico roughly to the dirt. His throat ached and burned as he sucked in oxygen greedily but at least he could breathe again. Petrovsky and Foller came to help him up but he shoved them away with a curse. No cowards were going to give him any assistance. He would strip their hides when they got back to base!
"What the hell are you?" Rico asked, climbing to his feet, snatching his rifle from Foller's hand.
Smith stopped and turned, staring at Rico from behind his mask intently. Rico feel this skin crawl in the wake of that scrutiny. The man wasn't human it was as simple as that.
"I am evolution, major," Smith said it as if it were an irrefutable fact, "I am life after death. Dust yourself off and regain what remains of your self-respect. We are behind schedule as it is and you have cost us even more time."
Rubbing his throat, Rico watched Smith march up the trail, urging the others to fall back into line. The man that had mentored him all those years ago had never been renowned for his mercy yet he could have killed Rico then and there, with good reason – without breaking a sweat – and yet he had not. What was it he had said, that he "required" Rico to live a little longer?
Why? Why didn't he kill me? Rico wondered as the line reformed, he made sure to keep Sven's girth between himself and Smith. Why did he let me live? Rico had a feeling that when the time came he wouldn't like the answer.
Page Break ----------
The van had come to an abrupt halt upon touching the dirt track that lead into the forest, out of gas Officer Gabbor had said. Burke felt his horror mount when Lieutenant Wilcott had explained that they would proceed on foot through the Arklay woods – on foot, in the night, while it was raining! The man was either stupid or crazy or both, anyone with knowledge of the Project knew the forest would be a killing ground by this point. Whatever the case, the lieutenant seemed quite determined to get Miss Parker back – perhaps even to the point of suicide. Most definitely not the type of person Greg Burke liked to associate himself with.
"Please, lieutenant, I beg you to reconsider this!" Burke pleaded, feeling no shame at how much his voice broke, his life was at stake after all and besides, his nose hurt too much for him to care anyway. He would get his revenge on the hairy brute that broke it if it was the last thing he ever did. "We'll never make it out of these woods alive! You don't know what is out there!"
Wilcott looked at him with about as much emotion as a stone as Officers Ward and Gabbor pulled the doors open from the outside. "Tech, shut him up."
"Gladly," the weasel-faced, disgusting little rodent of a man grinned as he grabbed hold of Burke's shirt and tossed him roughly out into the rain. Something soft and wet gave way beneath the doctor as he landed with a strangled cry. He hoped it was mud.
The others began climbing out of the van then, the Rangers switching on their lights and scanning the tree line for threats. The fools, using flashlights! How much attention did they want to attract? They wereall insane.
"Lieutenant," Burke said, undeterred, as he regained his feet. He would make this lot of ruffians and bullies see reason if he had to tear his hair out to do it. "You have to understand that these creatures are basically just animals, they have the same instincts. They'll want to escape the urban areas for environments like this! Just think how many could already be here by now! This is death!"
"Don't worry, Burke," Wilcott said, jumping down with Shank at his side. "I'll see that Shank here takes good care of you."
The biker smiled wide as he flexed one massive arm for effect before snatching Burke by his collar. Wilcott had assigned the unwashed, uneducated and uncaring beast to be his keeper and the thug simply reveled in his newfound authority. Burke could not even begin to count the number of times the illiterate had slapped him upside the head or hurled a curse his way since leaving Saint Jude's.
"Don't worry about the animals out there, Burke," Shank said, that toothy grin splitting his face in half, "worry about the one with his hand on your neck. You so much as sneeze without my say so and I'll break your legs." As if that was possible, Burke was almost sure his nose was broken in at least two places.
"Where are we going, Burke?" Zeke asked blandly.
"Follow the dirt track here until you come to a stream." What choice did he have? It was either tell the man what he wanted to know or be left behind to die – provided Shank didn't kill him first. "When you reach the stream you'll have to head into the woods to the east for about twenty yards. From there, keep walking north until I give the word. You'll need a passcode to gain access to the facility and I am not giving that up until we are out of the forest."
Wilcott merely stared at him for a moment, his face a mask of ice. Burke began to sweat. He was no soldier with training in how to resist fear and intimidation, if the lieutenant pointed a gun at him again Burke knew he would crack and give up everything. If that happened then he would be of no more use to them and they would be free to dispose of him in whatever manner they saw fit. Why drag around another person after all, especially one whom you felt had betrayed your trust somehow, they would only slow your pace.
Not for the first time that night, Burke wondered how things had come to this point. Everything had been going smoothly on his end of the Project, that was until one of the security guards – Burke had forgotten the man's name – became infected and attacked virologist Paul Weir. Weir then went on to spread the T-virus to two other members of Burke's staff. By then all security personnel were dead or worse and those still alive were coming down sick in greater numbers every day. Burke had no choice but to flee.
At least he hadn't left empty handed though, he still carried the computer disk with data relating to T-virus replication and resistance to treatment in his pocket and was quite relieved that the idiots hadn't thought to search him. Greg Burke was a good liar but he doubted even he could explain away that.
"Alright," Wilcott said after a moment and Burke discovered he could breathe again, "let's move out, time's wasting.
They moved out along the dirt trail with two of the lieutenant's Rangers guarding the front and three taking up the rear. Wilcott himself stayed near Burke as Shank pulled him along by the scruff of the neck. Though he did his best to maintain his composure, Burke still found himself jumping at every shadow that stretched along the path and every gust of wind that set branches to swaying and tree limbs groaning. He could feel the eyes of some hideous abomination watching him from the snake grass as they walked through the rain. Abominations he had helped create.
All in the name of science, Burke told himself as Eddie Gabbor began to complain about the rainfall ruining his hair do. The others roared with laughter but Burke failed to understand what was so funny – the man didn't have a hair on his head. All in the name of science and progress.
The thought always helped to cheer the doctor up whenever he felt a pang of conscience about the work he was doing. What a despicable thing the conscience was, completely without any sense of realism or ambition! The work he was doing now could one day make men and women immortal. No one would ever need to fear death if only the virus could be made more stable.
"Lieutenant!" Scott Owens cried excitedly, his youthful face alight with both hope and apprehension as he held out the radio to Wilcott. "I just received a transmission from command, sir. It's General Bosa."
His face still a grim mask Lieutenant Wilcott pressed the receiver to his ear. "This is Lieutenant Wilcott," he said, "go ahead."
"Lieutenant," the voice on the other end, gruff and tinged with an almost transparent Southern accent replied. "This is General Bosa."
"Yes, sir," Wilcott answered, the rest of the group staring at him with eager, hopeful faces. Skip actually had his hands clasped together. "It's good to hear your voice, general, we were starting to think you had forgotten about us. I hope you have some good news for me and my guys, sir."
There was a long pause on the other end of the line, nothing to be heard but the hiss of static. Kathy began worrying her lip, Skip muttered under his breath. Burke eyed the tree line, surely the creatures had heard the sounds of the men talking if they hadn't already seen the glow of their lights.
"I'm afraid not, lieutenant." Bosa sighed and all those hopeful faces fell. Skip unclasped his hands and kicked a rock into one of the tree trunks dotting the path. Burke winced at the noise. "I tried, I tried for hours to get another team out to you, lieutenant but command wouldn't have it. They've already lost three entire groups out there along with most of yours. There'll be no air support either the president has labeled Raccoon City as a quarantine zone – nothing in or out. I'm sorry, lieutenant, but you're on your own out there."
Wilcott paused a moment before answering, his jaw set and lips tight. Burke tensed, the Ranger looked ready to hit something and the doctor knew he must be high on the list of things Zeke Wilcott would like to give a beating to.
"I understand, sir." The lieutenant responded plainly, staring at his boots. "So much for leaving no man behind, huh?"
"I'm sorry, son, but this isn't like anything we've ever seen before. Please believe that I went to bat for you." Bosa sounded as tired and disgusted as the lieutenant. "There's more though. The crew at the White House are worried about this thing spreading outside Raccoon…a sanitation order has been issued. At dawn a tactical nuclear strike will be launched against the city. The approximate time of the launch will be oh-seven-hundred hours."
"Holy shit." Skip muttered, swaying on his feet until Kathryn steadied him with a touch on the shoulder. "A nuke."
Eddie snorted, "So much for being lucky," and began to hum a tune Burke thought he recognized. Luck Be A Lady Tonight?
"You're going to have to find a way out of town before then, lieutenant." Bosa continued. "I'm sorry, Zeke, God knows it." The general sighed heavily then went on. "A radio blackout has been ordered from the end of this communication until the detonation of the missile. The president wants all traces of the Raccoon incident and the Ranger incursion wiped away before the public finds out how many of our boys died out there. It's fucking politics, Zeke. I pray to God you all make it out of there with a whole skin but there's nothing more I can do for you on this end. God might not forgive me for this but I hope you and your men will. This is Bosa, over and out." There was a click and then nothing but the empty hiss of static.
"Our list of options just got shorter." Wilcott said, hanging up the radio though he looked more like he wanted to throw it. "No help is coming. We're on our own from here on out."
"Game over," Tech said with a shaky, panicked laugh, "game fucking over. They aren't even going to try and help us, it's just, drop the bomb, tally the numbers and we all get swept under the goddamn rug! Gotta love the good ol' U.S. of A. Shit, we might as well already be dead – we are on paper!"
"We aren't dying here," Wilcott said and his expression was so fierce that it shut the rambling biker up instantaneously. "Burke said there were helicopters and a tram at this research station that we can use. We're going to collect Rachel, hit the station and get the hell out of here before the Air Force turns it into a parking lot."
"And if the rat is lying again?" Shank asked, giving Burke's collar a shake. Again, the doctor flinched and was suddenly glad this was one of the rare times he had told someone the whole, unabashed truth.
"If he's lying," Wilcott began, stepping over and staring Burke in the eye. The Ranger's face was dark and smudged with filth but beneath that there was no emotion, no feeling left in the man. He was a stone, a man with nothing to lose. A shiver ran up Burke's spine and he lowered his eyes. "If he's lying then I'll strap him to the roof of the goddamn building so he has a front row seat when the nuke hits."
"I-I assure you everything I told you was true, Lieutenant Wilcott." Burke stammered, knowing the other man meant every word he said and believed nothing he heard – from Greg Burke at least. "W-we should make haste though, now that we have a c-clock to work against and – " Burke felt his bowels clench painfully as the dense brush began to rustle on all sides of the path and Officer Gabbor raised his voice.
"Oh shit." The young cop said, pressing the stock of his shotgun to one shoulder.
"Lieutenant?" Skip asked uncertainly, raising his pistol and turning in a loose circle.
"Form up." Wilcott ordered, dropping into a crouch and the others imitated him, Shank dragging Burke down as the Rangers spread out in a protective ring around the group.
Sweat broke out anew across Burke's forehead and he wiped it away absently with the back of his shirtsleeve. What could be out there? Hunters, certainly but which series? Maybe the Drain Deimoses too. Or…It wasn't supposed to be this way. I was supposed to be out of the city by now, the Project was supposed to be over and I was supposed to be back at the head quarters in Europe, a rich man. I was supposed to be out of here.
Burke's heart thumped so loudly in his chest that he was sure whatever lurked in the woods must be able to hear it. The wind howled but it had nothing to do with the sounds of shifting mud and snapping foliage coming from the long grass encircling the path. Weapons raised, Burke began to pant. It wasn't supposed to be this way. Umbrella was supposed to fly me out and have a stack of cash and a glass of brandy waiting for me when I got back. This is all wrong.
There was the sound of something testing the air with its nose – almost all T-subjects could hunt through scent alone – and eight shadowy figures skulked out onto the path from either side. They were dogs – had been, once – sleek, muscular Dobermans with eyes as dark and red as blood. These particular Dobermans were missing large sections of skin and fur though, the reddish-pink of sinew and tendons glistening in the moonlight, wet with the falling rain. Cerberuses, these creatures were called by the Project technicians hell hounds, and they suited the name. Baring teeth as they caught sight of their prey, the dogs reared back on their strong haunches, bits of unidentifiable meat dripping from in between quivering jaws.
A shotgun blast shook the night, one of the pack's head's exploding in a sudden eruption of blood and bone fragments. It wasn't supposed to be this way. Growling, the hounds charged and everyone began to fire, the bullets knocking the Cerberuses back but they always rose again, gnashing their teeth. It wasn't supposed to be this way! The pop of pistols was swallowed by the heavy boom of Gabbor's shotgun which in turn was eaten up by the chatter of automatics. Barking, the hell hounds pounced and someone screamed as one of the pack landed atop them. The shotgun fell silent. It was not supposed to be this way!
Darkness surrounded the doctor, the only sounds the crack of gunfire, Wilcott shouting and the ravenous barking of the infected Dobermans. Burke understood the sounds if not the darkness, he had been able to see a moment ago but then he realized that he had his head tucked firmly between his knees and was trembling violently. Gregory Burke had never been a brave man but he was a perceptive one and thus noticed quite quickly that Shank was no longer manhandling him.
Daring to look up, the doctor saw that his guard had his hands full as it was, pulling a Cerberus off the struggling Officer Gabbor and snapping its neck with his bare hands. Some might have considered the action brave but Burke knew a madman when he saw one and Shank was a madman not a hero. The man was an animal.
Ahead of him the others fought in an ever collapsing circle with their backs to each other. The muzzle flashes illuminated faces soaked with rain and perspiration, fixed in expressions of stalwart determination and impossible fear. The bushes and high grass lining the path trembled spitting out more of the skinned dogs barking madly as they tore towards the group. They only came from either side though, Burke saw, the way behind was perfectly clear.
Without another thought for the matter, Burke climbed to his feet and took off at a dead sprint back the way they had come. The rain slapping at his face, his stomach churning violently, Burke had no concern for anything but his own safety. He cared for nothing except the need to get away. He had to get away.
"Burke!" Shank bellowed from somewhere far behind and the doctor shrieked but didn't dare slow down. If he was caught now they would drag him back into that hell and gladly offer him up to the dogs to buy themselves time. Bullets ripped up the soil at his feet as Shank opened fire and Burke veered into the trees to his right to escape the hail of lead.
The forest surrounded him, sharp brambles tugging at his pant legs while branches slashed the skin of his face, drawing blood. Burke didn't care though, the pain was nothing compared to that which Shank would inflict if slowed down now. Burke ran through the dark brush, knowing he was making a dangerous amount of noise but all rationality in him was overridden by the desire – no, the need – to be gone. It wasn't supposed to be this way! Saying it did not make it so though.
Burke cried out in surprise as something snagged his foot and sent him tumbling end over end down a steep hill. He fell for what felt like hours, mud and dead leaves adhering to his shirt and face, before finally coming to rest at the bottom of the incline. He groaned, his head, his back , his legs – everything ached. Burke raised his right hand and saw one finger pointing in the wrong direction – dislocated.
"Skree! Skree!" The feral cry from deep in the shadows drove all thoughts of pain from Burke's mind and replaced them with a primal terror. He would have recognized the call of a Hunter anywhere.
What series though? Burke wondered in his panic, scrambling to get his legs back under him. Surely the Hunter had already seen him – their eyes were incredibly sharp in the dark and even if the creature was blind it could still smell him out. Is it 121, 3K, Beta, Gamma – what?
No, none of that mattered. All that mattered was to be elsewhere when the abomination arrived. Burke took off at a run again – when the leaves in the treetop to his left shook and the branches creaked, straining to support a heavy burden. The doctor had just enough time to open his mouth and form a scream before something with burning crimson eyes leapt from the canopy and knocked the breath from his body.
Suddenly Burke could see the silver sphere of the moon and realized he was lying on his back in the rain, sucking in rapid, uneven breaths. He felt wetness on his shirt and pressed a hand to his stomach. It came away dripping with his blood.
The shadow with the fiery eyes stood above him now, sniffing at the blood in the air. Wet, glistening talons twitched in the moonlight. It was a shadow with claws, death borne of the night – a monster. One he had helped create. All in the name of science.
"It wasn't supposed to be this way." Burke whispered but the creature didn't understand him – couldn't understand him. With a final trilling cry it brought a hand of knives down across the doctor's face. There was a moment of pain beyond reason and then Gregory Burke felt no more.
Author's Note: Here's the next chapter, my Readers. I hope you enjoy. Please don't forget to drop a review after reading. Love it or hate it, let me know – I'm always starving for feedback so let me know what/who you like/dislike. Stay tuned for another update in a week or two. Thank you for your patronage and enjoy!