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.
– oh, no
From behind, the zombies had reached them.
Nicholai and Wersbowski were the only two from B to make it, and only then because they'd both taken ad- vantage where they could – Nicholai had pushed Brett Mathis into the arms of one of the creatures when it had gotten too close, gaining a precious few seconds that had allowed him to escape. He'd seen Wersbowski shoot Li's left leg for the same reason, crippling the soldier and leaving him to distract the closest virus car-riers. Together, they made it to an apartment building's fire escape some two blocks from where the others had fallen. Gunfire tatted erratically as they climbed the rusty steps, but already the hoarse screams of dying men were fading to silence, becoming lost in the cries of the hungry damned. Nicholai weighed his options carefully as they scaled the fire escape. As he'd predicted, John Wersbowski was a survivor and obviously had no problem doing whatever was necessary to remain one; with as bad as things were in Raccoon – worse, in fact, than Nicholai had been led to believe – it might pay to have such a man watching his back.
And if we're surrounded, there would be someone to sacrifice so that I might get away…
Nicholai frowned as they reached the rooftop, as Wersbowski stared out at what they could see from three stories up. Unfortunately, the sacrifice element worked both ways. Besides, Wersbowski wasn't an idiot or as trusting as Mathis and Li had been; getting the drop on him could be difficult. 'Zombies,' Wersbowski muttered, clutching his rifle. Standing beside him, Nicholai followed his gaze to where squad B had made its last stand, at the broken bodies that littered the pavement and the creatures that continued to feed. Nicholai couldn't help feeling a bit disappointed; they'd died in minutes, hardly putting up a fight…
'So, what's the plan, sir?'
The sarcasm was obvious, both in tone and in the half amused, half disgusted expression he turned to Nicholai. Obviously, Wersbowski had seen him offer up Mathis. Nicholai sighed, shaking his head, the M16 loose in his hands; he had no choice, really. 'I don't know,' he said softly, and when Wersbowski looked back at where they'd fought, Nicholai squeezed the assault rifle's trigger. A trio of rounds hammered Wersbowski's abdomen, knocking him sprawling against the low cement ledge. Nicholai immediately raised the weapon and aimed at one of Wersbowski's shocked eyes, firing even as com-prehension flooded the soldier's flushed face, an aware-ness that he'd made the fatal mistake of letting his guard down. In under a second it was over, and Nicholai was alone on the rooftop. He stared blankly at the oozing body, wondering – and not for the first time – why he felt no guilt when he killed. He'd heard the term sociopathic before and thought that it probably ap-plied… although why people continued to see that as a negative, he didn't understand. It was the empa-thy thing, he supposed, the bulk of humanity acting as though the inability to 'relate' was somehow wrong.
But nothing bothers me, and I never hesitate to do what needs to be done, no matter how it is perceived by others; what's so terrible about that?
True, he was a man who knew how to control him-self. Discipline, that was the trick. Once he'd decided to leave his homeland, within a year he didn't even think in Russian anymore. When he'd become a merce-nary, he'd trained night and day with every manner of weapon and tested his skills against the very best in the field; he'd always won, because no matter how vicious his opponent, Nicholai knew that having no conscience set him free, just as having one hindered his enemies.
This was an asset, was it not?
Wersbowski's corpse had no answer. Nicholai checked his watch, already bored with his philosophi-cal wanderings. The sun was low in the sky and it was only 1700 hours; he still had much to do if he meant to leave Raccoon with everything he needed. First, he needed to pick up a laptop and access the files he'd cre-ated only the night before, maps and names; there was supposed to be one locked up and waiting for him in the RPD building, although he'd have to be extremely careful in the area, as the two new Tyrant seekers would surely be there at some point. One was pro-grammed to find some chemical sample, and Nicholai knew there was an Umbrella lab not far from the build-ing. The other unit, the more technologically advanced creation, would be set to take out renegade S.T.A.R.S., assuming there were any still in Raccoon, and the
S.T.A.R.S. office was inside the RPD. He wouldn't be in any danger as long as he stayed out of the way, but he'd hate to get between any series of Tyrant and its target if even half of what he'd heard was true. Um-brella was taking full advantage of the Raccoon situa-tion, taking proactive steps – using the new Tyrant models, if that's what they were, exactly – in addition to data gathering; Nicholai admired their efficiency. Nicholai heard a fresh burst of gunfire and reflex-ively stepped back from the edge of the roof, looking down to see two soldiers run past a moment later. One was injured, a ripped, bloody patch near his right ankle, and he leaned heavily against the other for support. Nicholai couldn't identify the wounded man, but his helper was the Hispanic who'd been watching him on the helicopter. Nicholai smiled as the two stumbled past and out of sight; a few of the soldiers would have survived, of course, but they would probably suffer the same fate as the injured man, who'd almost certainly been bitten by one of the diseased.
Or the fate that surely awaits the Hispanic. I wonder, what will he do when his friend starts to get sick? When he starts to change?
Probably try to save him in some pathetic tribute to honor; it would be his undoing. Really, they were all as good as dead. Amazed by how predictable they were, Nicholai shook his head and went to get Wersbowski's ammo pack.
FIVE
ON HER WAY TO THE BAR JACK, JILL THOUGHT she heard gunfire. She paused in the alley that would eventually lead her to the tavern's back entrance, head cocked to one side. It sounded like shots, like an automatic, but it was too far away for her to be sure. Still, her spirits lifted a little at the thought that she might not be fighting alone, that help might be on the way…… right. A hundred good guys have landed with bazookas, inoculations, and a can of whoop ass, maybe a steak dinner with my name on it to boot. They're all attractive, straight, and single, with college degrees and perfect teeth… 'Let's try to stick to reality, how 'bout,' she said softly and was relieved that she sounded fairly normal, even in the dank and shadowy quiet of the back alley. She'd been feeling pretty bleak back in the warehouse, even after finding a thermos of still-warm coffee in the upstairs office; the idea of trekking through the dead city one more time, alone -
– is what I have to do, she thought firmly, so I'm doing it. As her dear, incarcerated father was fond of
saying, wishing that things were different didn't make it so. She took a few steps forward, pausing when she was about five feet from where the alley branched. To her right was a series of streets and alleys that would lead her further into town; left would take her past a tiny courtyard, with a path straight to the bar – assuming that she knew this area as well as she thought she did. Jill edged closer to the junction, moving as silently as she knew how, her back to the south wall. It was quiet enough for her to risk a quick look down the alley to the right, her weapon preceding her; all clear. She shifted position, stepping sideways across the empty path to look in the direction she meant to go
– and heard it, uunnh, the soft, pining cry of a male carrier, half hidden by shadow perhaps four meters away. Jill targeted the darkest part of the shadow and waited sadly for it to step into view, reminding herself that it wasn't really human, not anymore. She knew that, had known it since what had happened at the Spencer estate, but she encouraged the feelings of pity and sorrow that she felt each time she had to put one of them down. Having to tell herself that each zombie was beyond hope allowed her to feel compassion for them. Even the shambling, decomposing mess that now swayed into view had once been a person. She didn't, couldn't let herself get overly emotional about it, but if she ever forgot that they were victims rather than mon-sters, she would lose some essential element of her own humanity. A single shot to its right temple, and the zombie col-lapsed into a puddle of its own fetid fluids. He was pretty far gone, his eyes cataracted, his gray-green flesh sliding from his softening
