Стефани Перри: Nemesis

Straight line, five men facing front, five back the way they'd come. Carlos ran to get in position, his mouth suddenly dry, his hands damp. The short bursts of automatic fire just north of then* position were getting longer, drowning out whatever else there was to hear, but the stench was definitely getting worse. To cap his worries, he could hear distant fire, soft, clattering pops behind the closer blasts; whatever was going on, it sounded like all of the U.B.C.S. was engaged.

Carlos faced front, rifle ready, searching the empty street that stretched out in front of them and T-ed three blocks ahead. An Ml6 loaded with a thirty-round mag

was nothing to scoff at, but he was afraid—of what, he didn't know yet.

Why are they still firing over there, what takes that many bullets? What is it—

Carlos saw the first one, then, a staggering figure that half-fell from behind a building two blocks in front of them. A second lurched out from across the street, followed by a third, a fourth—suddenly, at least a dozen plodding, stumbling people were in the street, coming their way. They seemed to be drunk.

"Christ, what'swrong with them, why are they walking like that?"

The speaker was next to Carlos, Olson his name was, and he was facing the direction they'd come from. Carlos shot a look back and saw at least ten more reeling toward them, appearing as if out of nowhere, and he realized in the same moment that the gunfire north of them was dying out, the intermittent bursts fewer and further apart.

Carlos faced front again and felt his jaw drop at what he saw and heard; they were close enough that he could make out individual features, then" strange cries clearly audible now. Tattered, blood-stained clothing, although a few were partially naked; pallid faces stained red, with eyes that saw nothing; the way that several held their arms out, as if reaching for the line of soldiers, still a block away. And the disfigurations—missing limbs, great hunks of skin and muscle torn off, body parts bloated and wet with putrefaction.

Carlos had seen the movies. These people weren't sick. They were zombies, the walking dead, and for a moment, all he could do was watch as they tottered

closer. Not possible,chale, and as his brain wrestled to accept what he was seeing, he remembered what Trent had said, about dark hours ahead.

"Fire, fire!..."Hirami was screaming as if from a great distance, and the sudden, violent chatter of automatic weapons to either side snapped Carlos back to reality. He aimed at the swollen belly of a fat man wearing ripped pajama bottoms, and he fired.

Three bursts, at least nine rounds smacked into the man's corpulent gut, punching a rough line across his lower belly. Dark blood splashed out, soaking the front of his pants. The man staggered but didn't fall. If anything, he seemed more eager to reach them, as if the smell of his own blood incited him.

A few of the zombies had gone down, but they continued to crawl forward on what was left of their stomachs, scraping broken fingers across the asphalt in their single-minded purpose.

The brain, gotta get the brain, in the movies shooting them in the head is the only way—

The closest was perhaps twenty feet away now, a gaunt woman who seemed untouched except for the dull glint of bone beneath her matted hair. Carlos sited the exposed skull and fired, feeling crazy relief when she went down and stayed there.

"The head, aim for the head—" Carlos shouted, but already, Hirami was screaming, wordless howls of terror that were quickly joined by some of the others as their line began to dissolve.

—oh, no—

From behind, the zombies had reached them.

* * *

Nicholai and Wersbowski were the only two from B to make it, and only then because they'd both taken advantage where they could—Nicholai had pushed Brett Mathis into the arms of one of the creatures when it had gotten too close, gaining a precious few seconds that had allowed him to escape. He'd seen Wersbowski shoot Li's left leg for the same reason, crippling the soldier and leaving him to distract the closest virus carriers.

Together, they made it to an apartment building's fire escape some two blocks from where the others had fallen. Gunfire tatted erratically as they climbed the rusty steps, but already the hoarse screams of dying men were fading to silence, becoming lost in the cries of the hungry damned.

Nicholai weighed his options carefully as they scaled the fire escape. As he'd predicted, John Wersbowski was a survivor and obviously had no problem doing whatever was necessary to remain one; with as bad as things were in Raccoon—worse, in fact, than Nicholai had been led to believe—it might pay to have such a man watching his back.

And if we're surrounded, there would be someone to sacrifice so that I might get away...

Nicholai frowned as they reached the rooftop, as Wersbowski stared out at what they could see from three stories up. Unfortunately, the sacrifice element worked both ways. Besides, Wersbowski wasn't an idiot or as trusting as Mathis and Li had been; getting the drop on him could be difficult.

"Zombies," Wersbowski muttered, clutching his rifle. Standing beside him, Nicholai followed his gaze to

where squad B had made its last stand, at the broken bodies that littered the pavement and the creatures that continued to feed. Nicholai couldn't help feeling a bit disappointed; they'd died in minutes, hardly putting up a fight...

"So, what's the planar?"

The sarcasm was obvious, both in tone and in the half amused, half disgusted expression he turned to Nicholai. Obviously, Wersbowski had seen him offer up Mathis. Nicholai sighed, shaking his head, the M16 loose in his hands; he had no choice, really.

"I don't know," he said softly, and when Wersbowski looked back at where they'd fought, Nicholai squeezed the assault rifle's trigger.

A trio of rounds hammered Wersbowski's abdomen, knocking him sprawling against the low cement ledge. Nicholai immediately raised the weapon and aimed at one of Wersbowski's shocked eyes, firing even as comprehension flooded the soldier's flushed face, an awareness that he'd made the fatal mistake of letting his guard down.

In under a second it was over, and Nicholai was alone on the rooftop. He stared blankly at the oozing body, wondering—and not for the first time—why he felt no guilt when he killed. He'd heard the term sociopathicbefore and thought that it probably applied ... although why people continued to see that as a negative, he didn't understand. It was the empathy thing, he supposed, the bulk of humanity acting as though the inability to "relate" was somehow wrong.

But nothing bothers me, and I never hesitate to do

what needs to be done, no matter how it is perceived by others; what's so terrible about that?

True, he was a man who knew how to control himself. Discipline, that was the trick. Once he'd decided to leave his homeland, within a year he didn't even thinkin Russian anymore. When he'd become a mercenary, he'd trained night and day with every manner of weapon and tested his skills against the very best in the field; he'd always won, because no matter how vicious his opponent, Nicholai knew that having no conscience set him free, just as having one hindered his enemies.

This was an asset, was it not?

Wersbowski's corpse had no answer. Nicholai checked his watch, already bored with his philosophical wanderings. The sun was low in the sky and it was only 1700 hours; he still had much to do if he meant to leave Raccoon with everything he needed. First, he needed to pick up a laptop and access the files he'd created only the night before, maps and names; there was supposed to be one locked up and waiting for him in the RPD building, although he'd have to be extremely careful in the area, as the two new Tyrant seekers would surely be there at some point. One was programmed to find some chemical sample, and Nicholai knew there was an Umbrella lab not far from the building. The other unit, the more technologically advanced creation, would be set to take out renegade S.T.A.R.S., assuming there were any still in Raccoon, and the S.T.A.R.S. office was inside the RPD. He wouldn't be in any danger as long as he stayed out of the way, but he'd hate to get between any series of Tyrant and its target if even half of what he'd heard was true. Umbrella was taking full advantage of the Raccoon situation, taking proactive steps—using the new Tyrant models, if that's what they were, exactly—in addition to data gathering; Nicholai admired their efficiency.