"The chapel of the clock tower," he said softly, still smiling. "We've been here since—since the helicopter crashed."
Jill opened her eyes again, obviously aware and reasonably focused. Shewasn't infected, he'd been so afraid for a while, but she was okay, she had to be.
"How long?"
Talking seemed to be tiring for her, so Carlos tried to summarize everything that had happened, to save her the questions. "The Nemesis shot down the helicopter, and you and I were both wounded. Your shoulder was ... injured, but I've been changing the dressings and it doesn't seem to be infected. We've been here two days, recuperating, you've been sleeping mostly. It's October first, I think, the sun set an hour ago and it's been raining off and on since last night..."
He trailed off, not sure what else he could tell her but not wanting her to fall asleep again, not right away.
He'd been stuck with his own thoughts for long enough.
"Oh, I found a case of fruit cocktail, of all things, in the trunk in that one sitting room—the one with the chessboard, remember? Water, too, someone was
hoarding, I guess, lucky for us. I didn't want to leave you alone, I've been, ah, taking care of you." He didn't add that he'd been cleaning her up, changing the drapes she lay upon when it was necessary; he didn't want her to feel embarrassed.
"You're hurt?" she asked, frowning, blinking slowly.
"Couple of fractured ribs, no big deal. Well, maybe when I have to pull the tape off,that's gonna hurt like a son of a bitch. All I could find was duct tape."
She smiled faintly, and Carlos softened his tone, almost afraid to ask. "How are you doin'?"
"Two days? No more helicopters?" she asked, looking away, and he felt himself tense slightly. She hadn't answered his question.
"No more helicopters," he said and noticed for the first time that the color in her cheeks was overly red.
He touched the side of her neck, and his tension grew; fever, not too bad, but she hadn't had it the last time he'd checked, an hour before. "Jill, how do you feel?"
"Not bad. Not bad at all, hardly any pain." Her voice was flat, inflectionless.
Carlos smiled crookedly. "Bien, si? That's good news, that means we can pack up and get out of here soon... "
"I'm infected with the virus," she said, and Carlos froze, his smile fading.
No. No, she's wrong, it's not possible.
"It's been two days, you can't be," he said firmly, telling her what he'd been telling himself since he first woke up. "I saw one of the other soldiers turn into a zombie, couldn't have been more than twohours from
the time Randy was bit until he changed. If you have it, something would have happened by now."
Jill carefully rolled onto her side, wincing a little, closing her eyes again. She sounded incredibly tired. "I'm not going to argue with you, Carlos. Maybe it's a different mutation because it came from the Nemesis, or maybe I picked up some kind of immunity, from being at the Spencer estate. I don't know, but I have it." Her voice shook. "Ican feel it, I can feel myself getting worse!"
"Okay, okay, shhh," Carlos said, deciding that he would leave immediately. He'd take Jill's revolver in addition to the assault rifle, and definitely a couple of hand grenades.
The hospital was close, and there was at least one vaccine sample there, that's what Trent had said. Carlos had wanted to find the hospital earlier, for supplies, but he'd been too exhausted and hurt to go looking, at first—and then he hadn't wanted to risk leaving Jill alone and unconscious, dangerous for several reasons.
I'll go out front and head west, see if I can find a sign or something... Trent had also said something about the hospital not being there for much longer; Carlos hoped he wasn't too late.
"Try and get back to sleep," Carlos said. "I'm going to take off for a while, to try and find something that might help you. I won't be gone long."
Jill already seemed to be half asleep, but she raised her head and made an effort to be clear, enunciating carefully. "If you come back and I'm—sicker, I want you to help me. I'm asking you now, I may not be able to ask you later. Do you understand?"
Carlos wanted to protest but knew that he'd want the same thing if he had the disease. Being dead sucked, but Raccoon was proof that there were worse things.
Like having to shoot someone you care about.
"I understand," he said. "You rest now. I'll be back soon."
Jill slept, and Carlos started to load up. Just before he left, he gazed into her sleeping face for a long moment, silently praying that she'd still be Jill when he got back.
The hospital turned out to be much closer than he thought, less than two blocks away.
Nicholai waited for Ken Franklin eagerly, knowing that the Watchdog's death would mark the beginning of the end game. Nicholai's growing frustration was about to come to an end.
If the bastard ever shows up...But no, he was coming, and then Nicholai would be on track again. He checked the corner window of the office he'd chosen, overlooking the dark, empty street—also his escape route, if the sergeant turned out to be troublesome—frame tenth time in half as many minutes, willing the errant Watchdog to hurry.
Nothing had gone as he'd planned, and although he'd made the best of it, Nicholai was losing his patience.
The search for Davis Chan had been spectacularly unsuccessful; Nicholai hadn't even caught a glimpse of him during the two days he'd stayed in the city—and twice more the elusive soldier had managed to avoid a confrontation after filing his reports, sending Nicholai running all over town.
Nicholai had also been planning to head to Umbrella's "water treatment" facility to get rid of Terence Foster earlier in the day, but he'd been further sidetracked in a wild-goose chase—he'd seen an uninfected woman near the RPD building, a tall, Asian-American woman wearing a tight, sleeveless red dress and holding a gun like she knew what to do with it. She'd slipped into the building and was gone. Nicholai had searched for nearly four hours but hadn't seen the mystery woman again.
So, all three of his targets, still alive. He'd been able to collect some Watchdog information, at least, uncovering a couple of private lab reports on the strength of the average zombie—but he'd had enough, enough eating cold beans out of cans, enough sleeping with one eye open, enough playing big game hunter. By his count, he'd killed four Beta Hunters, three giant spiders, and three brain suckers. And dozens of zombies, of course, although he didn't really count those as worthy of note, not anymore. They just kept getting slower and stickier; Raccoon already smelled like a giant cesspool, and it was only going to get worse as the virus carriers continued to decay, turning into great sludgy piles of malodorous stew.
I'llbe gone by then. After all, Franklin will be here any minute.
After two days of unmet objectives, Nicholai had come to see Franklin's appointment at the hospital as something solid, something he could hold on to—a sure kill. And as he'd passed long, solitary hours immersed in the growing chaos of uncertainty, the death of Ken Franklin had become extremely important.
Once he was dead, Nicholai could blow up the hospital; once the hospital was destroyed, Nicholai could hunt down Chan and Foster, and then he could leave. Everything would fall into place as soon as he killed Franklin.
Even as Nicholai embraced that thought, he heard footsteps out in the hall. Heart swelling with pleasure, Nicholai took his position by the window and waited for Franklin to find him. The cluttered office/supply room was on the fourth floor, not far from where he'd killed and hidden Dr. Aquino.
Come along, Sergeant...
When the Watchdog opened the door, Nicholai was leaning casually in the corner, arms folded. Franklin was carrying top of the line, a 9mm VP70, and he had it trained on Nicholai's face in the blink of an eye.