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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 di
– is what 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, uu
– 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 reco
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 care-fully, 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 in-troduction 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 man-aged 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.
"What's coming, Brad?" "You'll see!"
With that, Brad turned and snatched the door open, blind panic tripping him as he stumbled out into the street and took off ru
Unsettled, Jill mentally wished him luck and turned toward the polished bar, hoping that the ancient Rem-ington was still tucked under the register and wonder-ing what the hell Chickenheart Vickers was doing in Raccoon, and what, exactly, had him so terrified.
Mitch Hirami was dead. So were Sean Olson, and Deets, Bjorklund, and Waller, and Tommy, and the two new guys, who Carlos couldn't remember except one of them was always cracking his knuckles and the other one had freckles…
Stop it, just knock it off! It doesn't matter now, all that matters is getting us out of here.