Nicholai heard a fresh burst of gunfire and reflexively 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—
—iswhat 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 monsters, she would lose some essential element of her own humanity.
A single shot to its right temple, and the zombie collapsed into a puddle of its own fetid fluids. He was pretty far gone, his eyes cataracted, his gray-green flesh sliding from his softening bones; Jill had to breathe through her mouth as she stepped over him, careful to avoid getting him on her boots.
Another step and she was looking down on the courtyard—
—and she saw two more zombies standing below, but also a flash of movement disappearing into the alley, heading toward the bar. It was too fast to be one of the carriers. Jill only caught a glimpse of camo pants and a black combat boot, but it was enough to confirm what she'd hoped—a person. It was a living person.
From the small set of steps that led down into the yard, Jill quickly dispatched both carriers, her heart pounding with hope. Camouflage gear. He or she was military, maybe someone sent in on reconnaissance; perhaps her little fantasy wasn't so far-fetched after all. She hurried past the fallen creatures, running as soon as she hit the alley, up a few steps, ten meters of brick, and she was at the back door.
Jill took a deep breath and opened the door carefully, not wanting to surprise anyone who might be packing a gun—
—and saw a zombie lurching across the tiled floor of the small bar, moaning hungrily as it reached out for a
man in a tan vest, a man who pointed what looked like a small-caliber handgun at the closing creature and opened fire.
Jill immediately joined him, accomplishing in two shots what he was unable to do in five; the carrier fell to its knees, and, with a final, desperate groan, it died, settling to the floor like liquid. Jill couldn't tell if it had been male or female, and at the moment, she didn't give a rat's ass.
She turned her eager attention to the soldier, an introduction rising to her lips, and realized that it was Brad Vickers, Alpha team pilot for the disbanded S.T.A.R.S. Brad, whose nickname had been Chicken-heart Vickers, who'd stranded the Alpha team at the Spencer estate when he'd been too afraid to stay, who'd crept out of town when he'd realized that Umbrella knew their names. A good pilot and a genius computer hacker, but when push came to shove, Brad Vickers was a grade-A weasel.
And I'm glad to see him, regardless.
"Brad, what are you doing here? Are you okay?"
She did her best to keep from asking how he'd managed to survive, though she had to wonder—espe-cially since he only seemed to be armed with a cheap .32 semi and had been the worst shot in the S.T.A.R.S. As it was, he didn't look good—there were splatters of dried blood on his vest and his eyes were haunted, wide and rolling with barely controlled panic.
"Jill! I didn't know you were still alive!" If he was glad to see her, he was hiding it well, and he still hadn't answered her question.
"Yeah, well, I could say the same," she said, working not to sound too accusatory. He might have information she could use. "When did you get here? Do you know anything about what's going on outside of town?"
It was as though every word she said compounded his fear. His posture was tense, wound up, and he had the shakes. He opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out.
"Brad, what is it? What's wrong?" she asked, but he was already backing toward the front door of the bar, shaking his head from side to side.
"It's coming for us," he breathed. "For the S.T.A.R.S. The police are dead, they can't do anything to stop it, just like they couldn't stop this—" Brad waved one trembling hand at the bloody creature on the floor. "You'll see."
He was on the edge of hysteria, his brown hair slick with sweat, his jaw clenched. Jill moved toward him, not sure what to do. His fear was contagious.