as she could manage. 'Help isn't going to be coming, at least not for a while, but between the two of us…' 'Are you crazy?' he interrupted, his fevered gaze darting around. 'I'm not going anywhere, lady. My own daughter's out there somewhere, lost…'
He trailed off, staring at the door she'd come through as if he could see through it. Jill nodded, reminding herself that he was probably 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 smiledsweetly. '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
