Стефани Перри: Nemesis

—and together, we can probably get through one of the barricades!She only needed someone to keep watch and to help her push some of the cars out of the way.

"We have to get out of here," she said, forcing as much hope as she could manage. "Help isn't going to be coming, at least not for a while, but between the two of us—"

"Are you crazy?" he interrupted, his fevered gaze darting around. "I'm not going anywhere, lady. My

own daughter's out there somewhere, lost..."

He trailed off, staring at the door she'd come through as if he could see through it.

Jill nodded, reminding herself that he was probably in shock. "All the more reason to—"

Again, he cut her off, his panicky voice rising into a shout that reverberated through the open space. "She's out there, and she's probablydead like the rest of them, and if I won't go out there forher, you gotta be insane to think I'm going to go out there foryou!"

Jill jammed the Beretta into the waist of her skirt, quickly holding up both hands, keeping her tone soothing. "Hey, I understand. I'm sorry about your daughter, really, but if we get out of the city, we can get help, we can come back—maybe she's hiding somewhere, and our best bet to find her is if we get some help."

He backed up a step, and she could see the terror beneath his anger. She'd seen it before, the false fury that some people used to avoid being afraid, and she knew that she wasn't going to be able to get through to him.

But I have to try. ..

"I know you're scared," she said softly. "I am, too.

But I'm—I was one of the members of the Special Tactics and Rescue Squad; we were trained for dangerous operations, and I truly believe that I can get us out of this. You'll be safer if you come with me."

He backed up another step. "Go to hell, you, you bitch"he spat, then turned and ran, stumbling across the cement floor. There was a storage trailer at the far side of the warehouse. He crawled inside, panting as he

pulled his legs in. Jill caught just a glimpse of his red and sweating face as he pulled the doors closed after him. She heard the metalclink of a lock, followed by a muffled shout that left no question as to his decision.

"Just go away! Leave me alone!"

Jill felt her own burst of anger, but knew it was useless, as useless as trying to reason with him any further. Sighing, she turned and walked back to the steps, carefully avoiding the depression that threatened to take over. She checked her watch—it was 4:30—and then

sat down, going over her mental map of uptown Raccoon. If the rest of the streets out were as thoroughly overrun, she was going to have to veer back into town, try from another direction. She had five full magazines, fifteen rounds in each, but she'd need more firepower ... like a shotgun, perhaps. If she couldn't find shells, she could at least club the bastards with it.

"The Bar Jack it is, then," she said quietly and pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, wondering how she would ever make it.

FOUR

THEY REACHED THE CITY IN THE LATE AFTERnoon, 1650 by Carlos's check, and prepared to drop out over a deserted lot. Apparently there was an underground facility or somesuch nearby, owned by Umbrella; at least that's what they had been told at the briefing.

Carlos got in line with his squad, assault rifle slung over his shoulder as he hooked himself to the drop line and waited for Hirami to open the door. Directly in front of Carlos was Randy Thomas, one of the friendlier guys in A squad. Randy glanced back at him and pretend-growled, pointing his forefinger and thumb at Carlos, a mock-gun. Carlos grinned, then clutched his gut as if shot. Stupid shit, but Carlos found himself relaxing a little as their leader pulled the door open and the roar of multiple choppers filled the cabin.

Two by two, the men in front of Carlos slid down the dual rappelling lines anchored to the body of the helicopter. Carlos stepped closer to the opening, squinting against the whipping wind to see where they'd be landing. Their 'copter cast a long shadow in the late-day sun and he could see men from the other platoons on the ground, lining up by squad. Then it was his turn; he stepped out a second after Randy, the thrill of the practical free fall sending his stomach into his chest. A blur of passing sky, and he touched down, unhooking from the line and hurrying to where Hirami stood.

A few minutes later, they were all down. Almost in unison, the four transport 'copters swung west and buzzed away, their noise fading as dust settled around the assembled troops. Carlos felt alert and ready as the squad and platoon leaders started to point in different directions, assigning routes that had been plotted before they'd left the field office.

Finally, as the helicopters grew smaller, they could hear again—and Carlos was struck by the silence of their surroundings. No cars, no industrial sounds at all, and yet they were at the edge of a decent-sized city. Weird, how one took those noises for granted, not noticing them at all until they weren't there.

Mikhail Victor, platoon D's supervisor, stood quietly with Hirami and his other two squad leaders, Cryan and that creepy Russian, while the supervisors of A, B, and C platoons gave directions, the squads moving out briskly and with a minimum of noise. Their bootsteps seemed overly loud in the still air, and Carlos saw looks of vague unease on some of the passing faces, a look he knew he wore. Probably it was so quiet 'cause

people were at home sick, or holed up somewhere, but it was kind of eerie anyway, the stillness ...

"A squad, double-time!" Hirami called, and even his voice seemed oddly muted, but Carlos put it out of his mind as they started jogging after him. If his memory served from the briefing, they were all headed roughly west, into the heart of Raccoon City, the platoons fanning out to cover the greatest area. Within a hundred yards, squad A was on its own, thirty soldiers jogging through an industrial area not so different than the one that their field office was in; run-down lots strewn with trash, weedy patches of dirt, fenced storage units.

Carlos scowled, unable to keep quiet. "Fuchi," he said, half under his breath. Smelled like a fart in a bag full of fish.

Randy lagged back a few steps to run alongside Carlos. "You say something, bro?"

"I said something stinks," Carlos muttered. "You smell that?"

Randy nodded. "Yeah. Thought it was you."

"Ha, ha, you kill me,cabrdn." Carlos smiled sweetly. "That means 'good friend,' by the way."

Randy grinned. "Yeah, I bet. And I bet—"

"Hold up! And shut up, back there!"

Hirami called a stop, holding one hand up to ensure silence. Faintly, Carlos could hear another squad a block or two north, the beat of their boots on pavement. And after a second, he could hear something else.

Moans and groans, coming from somewhere ahead of them, faint at first but getting louder. Like a hospital population had been kicked out into the street. At the

same time, the bad smell was getting stronger, worse— and familiar, like ...

"Oh, shit," Randy whispered, his face paling, and Carlos knew at once what the smell was, just as Randy must know.

Not possible.

It was the smell of a human body rotting in the sun.

It was death. Carlos knew it well enough, but never had it been sohuge, so all-encompassing. In front of them, Mitch Hirami was lowering his hand uncertainly, a look of deep concern in his eyes. The distressed, wordless sounds of people in pain were getting louder. Hirami seemed about to speak—

—when gunfire erupted from nearby, from one of the other squads, and in between the blasts of automatic fire that ripped through the afternoon air, Carlos could hear men screaming.

"Line!" Hirami shouted, holding up both hands with the palms turned to the sky, his voice barely audible over the stutter of bullets.