… don't think I'm hurt… helicopter's fuel tank must
have blown…
"Unnnh…"
Claire was on her feet instantly, the soft, pitiful, un– mistakable moan inspiring a near panic of action, the sound joined by another, and another. She spun around and saw the first one stumbling toward her from what was left of the burning helicopter, a man, his clothes and hair on fire, the skin of his face blistering and black. She turned again and saw two more of them crawling up from the mud, their faces a sickening gray-white, their skeletal fingers grasping in her direction, clutching air as they reeled toward her. Shit! Just as in Raccoon, Umbrella's viral synthesis had effectively turned them into zombies, stealing their humanity and their lives. She didn't have time for disbelief or dismay, not with three of them closing in, not when she realized that there were others farther along the path. They staggered out from the shadows, slack, brutalized faces all turning slowly toward her, mouths hanging open, their gazes blank and unchanging. Some wore shreds of uniforms, camo or plain gray, guards and prisoners. There had been a spill, after all.
"Uhhhh…" "Ohhh…"
The overlapping cries epitomized great longing, each plaintive wail that of a starving man looking at a feast. Goddamn Umbrella for what they'd done! It was be– yond tragic, the transformation from human into mind– less, dying creatures, decaying as they walked. The inevitable fate of each virus carrier was death, but she couldn't let herself mourn for them, not now, her pity limited by the need to survive.
Go go go NOW!
Her assessment and analysis lasted less than a second and then she was moving, no plan except to get away. With the path blocked in both directions, she leaped for the center of the graveyard, clambering over the marble slabs that marked the resting places of the true dead. Her wet, muddy jeans clung to her legs, hampering her, her boots slipping against the smooth headstones, but she managed to climb up and balance her weight between two of them, out of reach for the moment. For the second! You gotta get out of here, fast. The knife was no good, she didn't dare get close enough to use it – a single healthy bite from one of those things and she'd end up joining their ranks, if they didn't eat her first. The one with the blackened face was nearest, his hair melted away, part of his shirt still smoldering. He was close enough for her to smell the greasy, nauseating smell of burnt flesh, overlaid by the stench of the fuel that had cooked it. She had ten, fifteen seconds at most before he'd be close enough to grab for her. She shot a glance at the southeast corner of the yard, her arms out for balance. There were only two of them between her and the exit, but that was two too many, she'd never make it past both of them. She knew from Raccoon that they were slow, and that their reasoning skills were zip – they saw prey, they moved toward it in a straight line, regardless of what was in the way. If she could just bait them away from the gate…
Good idea, except there were too many on the ground, six or seven of them, she'd end up surrounded…
… but not if you stay on the headstones.
There were multiple zombies to either side of the cen– ter row of graves, but only one standing at the end of the line, directly in front of her… and that one barely func– tional, an eye gouged out, an arm broken and hanging. It was a risky plan, one stumble and she was toast, but the burned man was already reaching for her ankle with his charred and shaking hands, rain sizzling on his up-turned face. Claire leaped, arms wheeling as she landed with both feet on the narrow top of the next stone slab in line. She started to pitch forward, jerking and swiveling her body to maintain her center of gravity, but it was no good, she was going to fall -
– and without thinking, she quickly jumped again, then again, using the uneven stones like rocks in a river, using her lack of balance to propel her forward. An ashen-faced virus carrier snatched at her lower legs, moaning in feverish hunger, but she was already past it, leaping to the next headstone. She didn't have time to consider how she was going to stop, which was just as well – because the unlikely path ran out one jump later and her next leap was into a sloppy shoulder roll against the muddy ground a meter below. Oof, a hard drop, but she followed through and came up on her feet, just barely, her legs sliding unsteadily in the muck. The one-eyed zombie lurched toward her, gurgling, within easy reach, but she quickly stumbled around it, keeping on its blind side, the knife ready. The creature attempted to turn, to find its meal once more, but she easily stayed out of its limited sight. She risked a glance away from her awkward, shuf– fling dance and saw the other zombies closing in. The rain intensified, sluicing the mud off of her. It's working, just another few seconds… Frustrated by its lack of success, the half-blinded car– rier pawed at the air with its one good arm. The dirty, blackened nails scraped across her chest and the zombie moaned anxiously, scrabbling at the wet denim, but it couldn't get a solid grip.
God, it's touching me.
With a wordless cry of fear and disgust Claire slashed out with the knife, deep, nearly bloodless cuts opening up across its wrist. The zombie continued to clutch at her, oblivious to the damage she was doing as it stag– gered closer, and Claire decided that it was time to leave. She pulled her arms back, hands fisted, and then drove them forward into the creature's chest, pushing as hard as she could. She turned again to the center line of graves as the creature fell backward, the others much closer now. How she managed to climb back up so quickly she didn't know; one second she was on the ground, the next she was on top of beveled granite. She saw that the exit was clear, the zombies now loosely grouped near the west wall. Her hopping second journey along the headstones was only slightly more controlled than the first, each leap like a leap of faith, that she wouldn't slip and seri-ously injure herself. The rain was tapering off, and she could hear the wet, sucking sounds of their plodding, slow-motion chase clearly; unless one of them suddenly remembered how to jog, they were too far away to catch up to her.
Now I just have to pray that the door isn't secured,
she thought dizzily, jumping down from the last head– stone. The gate was standing open, but the door just past it wasn't; if it turned out to be locked, she was probably doomed. Three giant strides from where she landed, she was through the gate and reaching for the handle of a dented metal door, the exit set into the stone wall. It clicked open smoothly and she held the knife ready, hoping that if there were more carriers on the other side, at least the odds might be better. Behind her, the chemical cannibals lamented their loss, moaning loudly as she stepped through. Some kind of courtyard, piled with pieces of random wreckage, overlooked by a low guard tower. There was an overturned transport vehicle to her left, a low fire burning inside. The night was coming on quickly but the moon was also rising, either full or close to it, and as she secured the door behind her, she could see there was no immediate danger – no zombies headed toward her, anyway. There were several bodies strewn about, none of them moving, and she mentally crossed her fingers that at least one of them had a gun and some ammo. A brilliant light suddenly snapped on, a spotlight on the guard tower, the force of it instantly blinding her and as she instinctively looked away, the whining chatter of automatic fire broke out, bullets splashing in the mud at her feet. Blind and panicked, Claire dove for cover, the random thought that she might have been bet– ter off in that cell repeating itself through her terror.
The fighting had been over for some time, the last gunshots maybe an hour past, but Steve Burnside thought he might stay where he was for a while, just in case. Besides, it was still raining a little, a bitter ocean wind picking up. The guard tower was safe and dry, no dead people and no zombies wandering around, and he'd be able to see anyone coming in plenty of time to head them off… with a little help from the machine gun mounted on the window ledge, of course, a seri– ously kick-ass weapon. He'd mowed down all the courtyard zombies without breaking a sweat. He had a handgun, too, a 9mm semi that he'd taken off one of the past-tense guards, which also kicked ass, though not quite as much.
So, hang here another hour or so, assuming it doesn 't start pouring again, then go find a way off this rock.
He thought he could handle a plane, he'd seen his… he'd been in cockpits often enough, but he thought a boat might be better – not as far to fall if he screwed the pooch, so to speak. Steve leaned casually against the cement window ledge, looking out over the moonlit courtyard, wonder– ing if he should try to find a kitchen before ditching out. The guards hadn't gotten around to serving lunch, being as how they were all dying, and it seemed they didn't stock the tower room with doughnuts or whatever, he'd already looked. He was starving.