–Umbrella, the company that's responsible for building up our fair city, has been experimenting with a de-signer virus in their own backyard. They've been breeding and growing unnatural creatures in secret laboratories, then injecting them with something that makes them incredibly strong and extremely violent. When humans are exposed to this stuff, they become zombies, for lack of a better term. Flesh-eating, mind-less, decaying-on-the-hoof zombies, who feel no pain and try to eat other people. They're not really dead, but they're pretty close. So, let's work together, okay? Let's go out there and start mowing down unarmed cit-izens in the streets, your friends and neighbors, be-cause if we don't, you could be next."
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Jill sighed. She'd been a little more tactful, but no matter how well worded, it was still an insane story. Of course they hadn't believed her, not then, not in the light of day and in the safety of their uniforms. It hadn't been until after dark, when the screaming had begun… That had been the 25th of September, and today was the 28th, and the police were almost certainly all dead; she'd last heard gunshots… yesterday? Last night? It could have been the rioters, she supposed, but it didn't matter anymore. Raccoon was dead, except for the brain-dead virus carriers that roamed the streets, look-ing for a meal. Between no sleep and a near constant pump of adrenaline, the days had blurred together for her. After the police force had been destroyed, Jill had spent her time looking for survivors, endless hours ducking down alleys, knocking on doors, combing buildings for those who'd managed to hide. She'd found dozens, and with some help from a few of them, they'd made it to a safe place, a high school that they had barricaded. Jill had made sure they were se-cure before going back out into the city, searching for others. She'd found no one. And this morning, when she'd gone back to the high school… She didn't want to think about it, but some part of her knew that she had to, that she couldn't afford to for-get. This morning, she'd gone back and the barricade had been gone. Torn down by zombies, or perhaps taken down by someone inside, someone who looked out and thought they saw a brother or uncle or daughter in the crowd of flesh-eaters. Someone who thought that they were saving the life of a loved one, not realizing that it was too late. It had been a slaughterhouse, the air fetid with the stink of shit and vomit, the walls decorated with great smears of blood. Jill had nearly given up, then, more tired than she'd ever been, unable to see anything but the bodies of those who'd been lucky enough to die be-fore the virus could amplify in their systems. As she'd walked through the almost empty halls, killing the handful of carriers that had still been stumbling around – people she'd found, people who had cried with relief when they'd seen her only hours before -whatever hope she'd held on to was gone, lost with the realization that everything she'd been through was worthless. Knowing the truth about Umbrella hadn't saved anyone, and the citizens she thought she'd led to safety – over seventy men, women, and children – were gone.
She couldn't really remember how she'd made it home. She hadn't been able to think straight, and had barely been able to see through eyes swollen from cry-ing. Outside of how it affected her, thousands had died; it was a tragedy so vast it was nearly incomprehensible. It could have been prevented. And it was Umbrella's fault. Jill pulled the Beretta out from under her pillow, al-lowing herself to feel for the first time the immensity of what Umbrella had done. For the last few days, she'd kept her emotions in check – there had been people to lead, to help, and there'd been no place for any per-sonal feelings.
Now, though…
She was ready to get out of Raccoon and make the bastards who'd let this happen know how she felt. They had stolen her hope, but they couldn't stop her from surviving. Jill chambered a round and set her jaw, the stirrings of true hatred in her gut. It was time to leave.
THEY WOULD BE IN RACCOON CITY IN JUST under an hour. Nicholai Ginovaef was prepared, and he believed his squad would do well – better than the rest, anyway. The nine others that made up squad B respected him; he had seen it in their eyes, and although they would al-most certainly die, their performance would be note-worthy. After all, he had practically trained them himself. There was no talking in the helicopter that carried platoon D through the late afternoon, not even among the squad leaders, the only personnel who wore head-sets. It was too loud for the troops to hear one another, and Nicholai had nothing to say to either Hirami or Cryan – or Mikhail Victor, for that matter. Victor was their superior, the commander of the entire platoon. It was a job that should have belonged to Nicholai; Victor lacked the qualities that made up a true leader.
I possess them, though. I was chosen for Watchdog, and when this is all over, I'm the one Umbrella will have to deal with, whether they like it or not.
Nicholai kept his face as stone, but he smiled inside. When the time came, "they," the men who controlled Umbrella from behind the scenes, would realize that they'd underestimated him. He sat near the A and C squad leaders against one wall of the cabin, soothed by the steady and familiar throb of the transport. The very air was charged with tension and heavy with the scent of masculine sweat; again, familiar. He had led men into battle before – al-though if everything went as planned, he would never have to again. He let his gaze wander over the taut faces of the troops, wondering if any of them would survive more than an hour or two. It was possible, he supposed. There was the scarred man from South Africa, in Cryan's group… and on his own squad, John Wers-bowski, who had taken part in an ethnic cleansing a few years back, Nicholai couldn't remember which one. Both men had the combination of deep suspicion and self-possession that might conceivably allow them to escape Raccoon, howevef unlikely – and it was un-likely. The briefing hadn't prepared any of them for what was ahead… Nicholai's own private briefing, two days earlier, had been a different matter; Operation Watchdog, they called it. He knew the projected numbers, had been told what to expect and how to most effectively dispatch the unclean, the walking diseased. They'd told him about the Tyrant-like seeker units that were going to be sent in, and how to avoid them. He knew more than anyone on the transport.
But I'm also readier than Umbrella can possibly imagine… because I know the names of the other "dogs."
Again, he suppressed a smile. He possessed addi-tional information that Umbrella didn't know he had, that was worth a great deal of money – or would be, soon enough. On the surface, the U.B.C.S. was being sent in to rescue civilians; that was what they'd been told, anyway. But he was one of the ten who'd been chosen to gather and record data on the T-virus carriers, human and otherwise, and on how they fared against trained soldiers – the real reason the U.B.C.S. were being sent in, aka Watchdog. In the helicopter that car-ried platoon A were two others, disguised as U.B.C.S.; there were six already planted in Raccoon – three sci-entists, two Umbrella paper pushers, and a woman who worked for the city. The tenth was a police officer, a personal assistant to the chief himself. Each of them probably knew one or two of the others that Umbrella had handpicked as information collectors – but thanks to his well-developed computer skills and a few "bor-rowed" passwords, he was the only one who knew about all of them, as well as where each was supposed to be to file their reports.
Wouldn't their contacts be surprised when they failed to report in? Wouldn't it be amusing if only one Watchdog survived and was able to name his price for the information that had been gathered? And wasn't it amazing to think that a man could become a multimil-lionaire if he was willing to expend thought, a bit of ef-fort, and a few bullets?
Nine people. He was nine people away from being the only Umbrella employee to have the information they wanted. Most, if not all, of the U.B.C.S. would die quickly, and then he'd be free to find the other Watch-dogs, to take their data and end their miserable lives. This time he couldn't help it; Nicholai grinned. The mission that lay ahead promised to be an exciting one, a true test of his many skills… and when it was over, he was going to be a very wealthy man.