Listen to me, worried about freedom of the press at this point. It doesn't matter. At four o'clock this afternoon, one hour ago, Mayor Harris declared martial law; blockades have been set up all over the place, and we've been cut off from the outside. According to Harris, the city's been quarantined so that the "unfortunate illness that is plaguing some of our citizens" won't spread. He wouldn't call it the cannibal disease, but there's obviously no question—and according to our police scanner, the attacks are multiplying exponentially.
I believe that it may already be too late for all of us. The disease isn't airborne or we'd all have it, but the evidence strongly suggests that you get it when you're bitten by one of them, just like in the movies I used to watch on the Double Creature Feature when I was a boy. That would explain the incredible growth rate of the attacks—but it also tells me that unless the cavalry comes in very soon, we're all going to die, one way or another. The cops have closed down the press, but I'm going to try to get the word out
anyway, even if I have to go door-to-door. Dave, Tom, Kathy, Mr. Bradson—everyone else has gone home to be with their families. They don't care about letting the people know anymore, but it's all I have left. I don't want to
I just heard glass breaking downstairs. Somebody's coming.
There wasn't any more. Carlos lowered the crumpled sheets he'd found, placing them on the reporter's desk, his mouth a grim line. He'd killed two zombies in the hallway... maybe one of them had been the writer, a distressing thought made all the worse by its application—how long had it taken for the writer to change?
And if he's right about the disease, how long does Randy have?
A police scanner and some kind of handheld radio sat on a countertop across the room, but suddenly all he could think of was Randy, downstairs and getting sicker, waiting for Carlos to come back. He'd held up pretty well so far, managing to crawl through two of the blockades with only a little help, but by the time they'd reached the Raccoon Press building, he'd hardly been able to stand up on his own. Carlos had left him propped up beneath a dead pay phone on the first floor, not wanting to drag him up the stairs; a few small fires were smoldering on the lower landing, and Carlos had been afraid that Randy might trip and get burned ...
.. .which might be the least of his worries right now. Puta,what a balls-up. Why didn't they tell us what we were getting into?
Carlos choked down the despair that question raised;
it was something he could take up with the proper authorities once they got out of here. He'd probably end up being deported, since he was only in the country through Umbrella, but so what? At the moment, going back to his old life sounded like a picnic.
He hurried to the radio equipment and switched the scanner on, not sure what to do next; he'd never used one, and his only experience with two-way radios was a set of walkie-talkies he'd once played with as a kid. 200channel multi-band was written on top of the scanner, and there was actually a scan button. He pushed it and watched a small digital readout flash meaningless numbers at him. Except for a few static bursts and clicks, nothing happened.
Great. That's real helpful.
The radio was what he wanted, anyway, and it at leastlooked like a walkie-talkie, though it said,am/ssb transceiver on the side. He picked it up, wondering if there were channels, or if there was some memory control button—
—and heard footsteps out in the hall. Slow, dragging footsteps.
He dropped the radio on the counter and hefted his assault rifle, turning toward the door that opened into the hallway, already recognizing the shuffling, aimless steps of a zombie. The large newspaper office was the only room on the second floor; unless he wanted to jump out a window, the hall and stairs were the only way out. He'd have to kill it to get back to...
Oh, shit, it had to go past Randy, what if it got to him? What if—
What if itwas Randy?
"Please, no," he whispered, but once the possibility occurred to him, he couldn'tnot think about it. He backed across the room, feeling sweat slide down the back of his neck. The footsteps continued, getting closer—and was that a limp he heard, the sound of one foot dragging?
Please, don't be, I don't want to have to kill him!
The footsteps paused just outside the door—and then Randy Thomas stepped,lurched into view, his expression blank and free of pain, strings of drool hanging from his lower lip.
"Randy? Stop there, 'mano, okay?" Carlos heard his voice break with dismal fear. "Say something, okay? Randy?"
A kind of dread acceptance filled Carlos as Randy tilted his head toward him and continued forward, raising his arms. A low, gurgling moan erupted from his throat, and it was the loneliest sound Carlos thought he'd ever heard. Randy didn't really see him, didn't understand what he was saying; Carlos had become food, nothing more.
"Lo siento mucho,"he said, and again in English, in case there was any part of Randy left, "I'm sorry. Sleep now, Randy."
Carlos aimed carefully and fired, looking away as soon as he saw the grouping of holes appear just above Randy's right eyebrow, hearing but not seeing his comrade's body hit the floor. For a long time he simply stood, shoulders slumped as he gazed at his own boots, wondering how he'd gotten so tired so fast... and telling himself there was nothing else he could have done.
At last, he walked over and picked up the radio, hitting
the switch and thumbing the send control. "This is Carlos Oliveira, member of Umbrella's U.B.C.S. team, squad Alpha, Platoon Delta. I'm at the Raccoon City newspaper office. Can anyone hear me? We were cut off from the rest of the platoon, and now we—I need help. Request immediate assistance. If you can hear this, please respond."
Nothing but static; maybe he needed to try specific channels; he could go through them one by one and just keep repeating the message. He turned the radio over, looking at all of the buttons, and saw, stamped into the backing,range five miles.
Which means I can call anybody in town, how use-ful—except nobody's gonna answer, because they're dead. Like Randy. Like me.
Carlos closed his eyes, trying to think, trying to feel anything like hope. And he remembered Trent. He checked his watch, realizing how crazy this was, thinking that it was the only thing that made sense anymore; Trent hadknown, he'd known what was going on and he'd told Carlos where to go when the shit came down. Without Randy to think about and with no clear path out of town...
Grill 13. Carlos had just over an hour to find it.
Jill had just reached the S.T.A.R.S. office when the communication console at the back of the room crackled to life. She slammed the door behind her and ran to it, words spitting out through a haze of static.
"... is Carlos ... Raccoon ... were cut off... platoon ... help ... assistance ... if you can hear... respond ... "
Jill snatched up the headset and hit the transmit switch. "This is Jill Valentine, Special Tactics and Rescue Squad! You're not coming in very clear, please re-peat—what's your location? Do you read me? Over!"
She strained to hear something, anything—and then saw that the light over the transmit relay switch wasn't on. She tapped several buttons and jiggled the switch, but the little green light refused to show itself.
"Damn it!" She knew dick about communications, too. Whatever was broken, she wasn't going to be the one to fix it.
Well, at least I'm not the only one up Shit Creek without a paddle...
Sighing, Jill dropped the headset and turned to look at the rest of the office. Other than a few loose papers scattered on the floor, it looked the same as always. A few desks cluttered with files, PCs, and personal items, some overloaded shelves, a fax machine—and behind the door, the tall, reinforced steel gun safe that she hoped to God wasn't empty.