in shock. "All the more reason to..."
Again, he cut her off, his panicky voice rising into a
shout that reverberated through the open space. "She's out there, and she's probably dead like the rest of them,
and if I won't go out there for her, you gotta be insane
to think I'm going to go out there for you!"
Jill jammed the Beretta into the waist of her skirt,
quickly holding up both hands, keeping her tone sooth-
ing. "Hey, I understand. I'm sorry about your daughter, really, but if we get out of the city, we can get help, we
can come back - maybe she's hiding somewhere, and
our best bet to find her is if we get some help."
He backed up a step, and she could see the terror be-
neath his anger. She'd seen it before, the false fury that some people used to avoid being afraid, and she knew
that she wasn't going to be able to get through to him.
But I have to try...
"I know you're scared," she said softly. "I am, too. But I'm ... I was one of the members of the Special Tac-
tics and Rescue Squad; we were trained for dangerous
operations, and I truly believe that I can get us out of
this. You'll be safer if you come with me."
He backed up another step. "Go to hell, you, you bitch" he spat, then turned and ran, stumbling across the cement floor. There was a storage trailer at the far
side of the warehouse. He crawled inside, panting as he
pulled his legs in. Jill caught just a glimpse of his red
and sweating face as he pulled the doors closed after
him. She heard the metal clink of a lock, followed by a
muffled shout that left no question as to his decision.
"Just go away! Leave me alone!"
Jill felt her own burst of anger, but knew it was use-
less, as useless as trying to reason with him any further.
Sighing, she turned and walked back to the steps, care-
fully avoiding the depression that threatened to take
over. She checked her watch - it was 4:30 - and then
sat down, going over her mental map of uptown Rac-
coon. If the rest of the streets out were as thoroughly
overrun, she was going to have to veer back into town,
try from another direction. She had five full magazines,
fifteen rounds in each, but she'd need more fire-
power ... like a shotgun, perhaps. If she couldn't find
shells, she could at least club the bastards with it.
"The Bar Jack it is, then," she said quietly and
pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, wondering
how she would ever make it.
FOUR
THEY REACHED THE CITY IN THE LATE AFTER-
noon, 1650 by Carlos's check, and prepared to drop out
over a deserted lot. Apparently there was an under-
ground facility or somesuch nearby, owned by Um-
brella; at least that's what they had been told at the
briefing.
Carlos got in line with his squad, assault rifle slung
over his shoulder as he hooked himself to the drop line
and waited for Hirami to open the door. Directly in
front of Carlos was Randy Thomas, one of the friend-
lier guys in A squad. Randy glanced back at him and
pretend-growled, pointing his forefinger and thumb at
Carlos, a mock-gun. Carlos grinned, then clutched his
gut as if shot. Stupid shit, but Carlos found himself re-
laxing a little as their leader pulled the door open and
the roar of multiple choppers filled the cabin.
Two by two, the men in front of Carlos slid down the
dual rappelling lines anchored to the body of the heli-
copter. Carlos stepped closer to the opening, squinting
against the whipping wind to see where they'd be land-
ing. Their 'copter cast a long shadow in the late-day
sun and he could see men from the other platoons on
the ground, lining up by squad. Then it was his turn; he
stepped out a second after Randy, the thrill of the prac-
tical free fall sending his stomach into his chest. A blur
of passing sky, and he touched down, unhooking from
the line and hurrying to where Hirami stood.
A few minutes later, they were all down. Almost in
unison, the four transport 'copters swung west and
buzzed away, their noise fading as dust settled around
the assembled troops. Carlos felt alert and ready as the
squad and platoon leaders started to point in different
directions, assigning routes that had been plotted before
they'd left the field office.
Finally, as the helicopters grew smaller, they could
hear again - and Carlos was struck by the silence of
their surroundings. No cars, no industrial sounds at all,
and yet they were at the edge of a decent-sized city.
Weird, how one took those noises for granted, not
noticing them at all until they weren't there.
Mikhail Victor, platoon D's supervisor, stood quietly
with Hirami and his other two squad leaders, Cryan and
that creepy Russian, while the supervisors of A, B, and
C platoons gave directions, the squads moving out
briskly and with a minimum of noise. Their bootsteps
seemed overly loud in the still air, and Carlos saw
looks of vague unease on some of the passing faces, a
look he knew he wore. Probably it was so quiet 'cause
people were at home sick, or holed up somewhere, but
it was kind of eerie anyway, the stillness...
"A squad, double-time!" Hirami called, and even his voice seemed oddly muted, but Carlos put it out of
his mind as they started jogging after him. If his mem-
ory served from the briefing, they were all headed
roughly west, into the heart of Raccoon City, the pla-
toons fanning out to cover the greatest area. Within a
hundred yards, squad A was on its own, thirty soldiers
jogging through an industrial area not so different than
the one that their field office was in; run-down lots
strewn with trash, weedy patches of dirt, fenced stor-
age units
Carlos scowled, unable to keep quiet. "Fuchi," he said, half under his breath. Smelled like a fart in a bag
full of fish.
Randy lagged back a few steps to run alongside Car-
los. "You say something, bro?"
"I said something stinks," Carlos muttered. "You smell that?"
Randy nodded. "Yeah. Thought it was you."
"Ha, ha, you kill me, cabraln." Carlos smiled
sweetly. "That means 'good friend,' by the way." Randy grinned. "Yeah, I bet. And I bet..."
"Hold up! And shut up, back there!"
Hirami called a stop, holding one hand up to ensure
silence. Faintly, Carlos could hear another squad a
block or two north, the beat of their boots on pavement.
And after a second, he could hear something else.
Moans and groans, coming from somewhere ahead
of them, faint at first but getting louder. Like a hospital
population had been kicked out into the street. At the
same time, the bad smell was getting stronger, worse
and familiar, like ...
"Oh, shit," Randy whispered, his face paling, and Carlos knew at once what the smell was, just as Randy
must know.
Not possible.
It was the smell of a human body rotting in the sun.
It was death. Carlos knew it well enough, but never had
it been so huge, so all-encompassing. In front of them, Mitch Hirami was lowering his hand uncertainly, a look
of deep concern in his eyes. The distressed, wordless
sounds of people in pain were getting louder. Hirami
seemed about to speak...
... when gunfire erupted from nearby, from one of the
other squads, and in between the blasts of automatic
fire that ripped through the afternoon air, Carlos could
hear men screaming.
"Line!" Hirami shouted, holding up both hands with the palms turned to the sky, his voice barely audible
over the stutter of bullets.
Straight line, five men facing front, five back the way
they'd come. Carlos ran to get in position, his mouth
suddenly dry, his hands damp. The short bursts of auto-
matic fire just north of their position were getting
longer, drowning out whatever else there was to hear,
but the stench was definitely getting worse. To cap his
worries, he could hear distant fire, soft, clattering pops
behind the closer blasts; whatever was going on, it
sounded like all of the U.B.C.S. was engaged.
Carlos faced front, rifle ready, searching the empty
street that stretched out in front of them and T-ed three
blocks ahead. An M16 loaded with a thirty-round mag
was nothing to scoff at, but he was afraid - of what, he
didn't know yet.
Why are they still firing over there, what takes that
many bullets? What is it...
Carlos saw the first one, then, a staggering figure
that half-fell from behind a building two blocks in front of them. A second lurched out from across the street,
followed by a third, a fourth - suddenly, at least a
dozen plodding, stumbling people were in the street,
coming their way. They seemed to be drunk.
"Christ, what's wrong with them, why are they walk-
ing like that?"
The speaker was next to Carlos, Olson his name was,
and he was facing the direction they'd come from. Car-
los shot a look back and saw at least ten more reeling
toward them, appearing as if out of nowhere, and he re-
alized in the same moment that the gunfire north of
them was dying out, the intermittent bursts fewer and
further apart.
Carlos faced front again and felt his jaw drop at what
he saw and heard; they were close enough that he could
make out individual features, their strange cries clearly
audible now. Tattered, blood-stained clothing, although
a few were partially naked; pallid faces stained red,
with eyes that saw nothing; the way that several held
their arms out, as if reaching for the line of soldiers,
still a block away. And the disfigurations - missing
limbs, great hunks of skin and muscle torn off, body
parts bloated and wet with putrefaction.
Carlos had seen the movies. These people weren't
sick. They were zombies, the walking dead, and for a
moment, all he could do was watch as they tottered
closer. Not possible, chale, and as his brain wrestled to accept what he was seeing, he remembered what Trent
had said, about dark hours ahead.
"Fire, fire!..." Hirami was screaming as if from a great distance, and the sudden, violent chatter of auto-
matic weapons to either side snapped Carlos back to re-
ality. He aimed at the swollen belly of a fat man
wearing ripped pajama bottoms, and he fired.
Three bursts, at least nine rounds smacked into the
man's corpulent gut, punching a rough line across his
lower belly. Dark blood splashed out, soaking the front
of his pants. The man staggered but didn't fall. If any-
thing, he seemed more eager to reach them, as if the
smell of his own blood incited him.
A few of the zombies had gone down, but they con-
tinued to crawl forward on what was left of their stom-
achs, scraping broken fingers across the asphalt in their
single-minded purpose.
The brain, gotta get the brain, in the movies shooting
them in the head is the only way...
The closest was perhaps twenty feet away now, a
gaunt woman who seemed untouched except for the
dull glint of bone beneath her matted hair. Carlos sited
the exposed skull and fired, feeling crazy relief when
she went down and stayed there.
"The head, aim for the head..." Carlos shouted, but already, Hirami was screaming, wordless howls of ter-
ror that were quickly joined by some of the others as
their line began to dissolve.
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