Nemesis

Chapter Three

 

  JILL'S PLAN WAS TO SKIRT THE TOWN TO THE southeast, sticking to side streets and cutting through buildings as much as possible; the main streets weren't safe, and many of them had been blocked off in an at-tempt to corral the zombies, before things got too bad. If she could make it far enough south, she should be able to cut across farmland to Route 71, one of the feeders to the main highway.

  So far, so good. At this rate, I'll make it to 71 before it gets completely dark.

  It had taken less than an hour to make it from the suburbs to the apparently empty apartment building where she now stood, shivering a little from the damp chill that pervaded the poorly lit hallway. She'd dressed for ease of movement rather than protection from the elements - a tight shirt, a miniskirt, and boots, as well as a fanny pack to hold extra magazines. The body-hugging outfit clung to her like a second skin and would allow her to move quickly. She'd also brought a plain white sweatshirt for when she made it out of the city, which she now wore tied around her waist - for the time being, she'd rather suffer the chill and have her arms free. The Imperial was a slightly run-down apartment building at the southern edge of uptown Raccoon. Jill had discovered from her earlier excursions that once in-fected, the T-virus zombies went in search of food as soon as they could, abandoning their homes and taking to the streets. Not all of them, of course, but enough so that cutting through buildings was generally safer than being out in the open. A noise. A soft moan coming from behind one of the apartment doors farther down the hall. Jill froze, gun in hand, straining to hear which side it came from, and realized in the same moment that she could smell gas. "Shit," she whispered, trying to recall the layout of the building as the oily, pungent scent filled her nos-trils. A right turn where the corridor T-ed ahead, and. . . . . . and, another right? Or is the lobby right there? Think, you were here two days ago, Jesus, that's gotta be a massive leak. . .

  There was another groan from up ahead, definitely coming from the apartment on the left. It was the mind-less, empty sound that the zombies made, the only sound they could make as far as she knew. The door was cracked open, and Jill almost imagined she could see the shimmering waves of gas-thick air pouring out into the hall. She gripped the Beretta tighter and took a step back-wards. She'd have to go back the way she'd come, she didn't dare risk firing and she didn't particularly want to fend off one of the carriers bare-handed; a single bite from one of them would pass the infection on to her. Another step backwards, and. . . Creak. Jill spun around, instinctively raising her weapon as a door swung open perhaps five meters back. A shuffling, stoop-shouldered man lurched out into the gloom, cut-ting her off from the back entrance. He had the sallow skin and dead eyes of a virus carrier, as if the fact that one of his cheeks had been ripped off wasn't proof enough; zombies felt no pain. As this one opened its mouth to moan hungrily at her, she could see the base of its gray, swollen tongue, and even the reek of gas couldn't entirely overwhelm the sickly sweet odor of its decaying flesh. Jill turned, saw that the hallway ahead was still clear; she had no choice but to run past the apartment with the gas leak and hope that its resident was too slow to try for her.

  Go. Now.

  She took off, staying as close to the right side of the hall as she could, feeling the effects of the gas as she pumped her arms for more speed - a soft distortion of light, a sense of dizziness, an ugly taste at the back of her throat. She ran past the cracked door, distantly relieved that it opened no wider, suddenly remembering that the lobby was directly to the right. She rounded the corner

  - and bam, collided with a woman, knocking her down. Jill careened off her, hitting the stucco wall with her right shoulder hard enough that a light powder set-tled over them. She barely noticed, too intent on the fallen woman and on the three figures still standing in the small foyer, shifting their dumb attention to Jill. All of them were virus carriers. The woman, dressed in the tatters of a once white nightgown, gurgled incoherently and tried to sit up. One of her eyes was gone, the red, raw socket shining in the overhead light. The three others, all male, started toward Jill, moaning, their gangrenous arms raising slowly; two of them were blocking the metal and glass wall that led into the street - her way out. Three on foot, one crawling, reaching for her legs, at least two behind her. Jill scuttled sideways toward the security door, weapon pointed at the peeling forehead of the closest, less than two meters away. The wall of mailboxes behind him were made of metal, but she had no choice, she could only hope that the gas fumes were weaker here. The creature lunged and Jill fired, simultaneously leaping for the door as the semi-jacketed round tore into his skull. . . . . . and she felt as much as heard the explosion, sssssh-BOOM, a displacement of fiery air that shoved her in the direction she'd jumped, hard, everything moving too fast to separate, to understand chronologi-cally - her body, aching, the door dissolving, the world blotted out in shades of strobing white. She tucked and rolled, hard asphalt biting into her shoulder, the horrific smells of flash-fried meat and burning hair washing over her as shards of blackened glass peppered the street. Jill scrambled to her feet, ignoring all of it as she spun around, ready to fire again as flames began to eat the remains of the Imperial. She blinked her watering eyes, widening them, trying to see past the swimming flash spots that covered everything around her. At least two of the zombies were down, probably dead, but two others stumbled around in the burning wreckage, their clothes and hair on fire. To Jill's right and rear were the remnants of a police blockade, barrier rails and parked cars; she could hear more of the human carriers on the other side, shuffling and moaning. And there, to her left, already turning its slack and rolling head in her direction, was a single male, his ripped clothes slathered in drying blood. Jill took aim and squeezed the trigger, sending a bullet through its virus-riddled brain, walking toward it even as it crum-pled; there was a Dumpster just past the dying body, and past that, several uptown blocks of shopping dis-trict, now her best choice for escape.

  Have to head west, see if I can work around the blockades farther along. . .

  With the immediate danger past, she took a few sec-onds to catalog her injuries - abrasions on both knees and a bruised shoulder speckled with grit; it could have been a hell of a lot worse. Her ears rang and her vision still suffered, but those would pass soon enough. She reached the Dumpster and did her best to lean over it, to see down either side of the overcast north-south street in front of her. The bin was wedged be-tween the side wall of a trendy clothes shop and a decidedly crunched car, limiting what she could see. Jill listened for a moment, for cries of hunger or the distinctive shuffling sounds of multiple carriers, but she heard nothing.

  Probably wouldn't be able to hear a brass band at this point, she thought sourly and hoisted herself up. Straight across from the Dumpster was a door that she thought led through a back alley, but she was more in-terested in what lay to the left - with any luck, a straight shot out of town. Jill jumped down, glanced to either side, and felt ten-drils of real panic wrap around her brain. There were dozens of them, left and right, the closest already mov-ing to cut her off from the Dumpster.

  Move, Jilly!

  Her father's voice. Jill didn't hesitate, took two run-ning steps and threw her uninjured shoulder against the rusting door straight ahead. The door shuddered but didn't give. "Come on," she said, unaware that she'd spoken, fo-cusing herself on the door, doesn't matter how close they are, gotta get through. . . She rammed the door again, the cloying scent of their rotting flesh enveloping her, and still the door held. Focus! Do it, now! Again, the authoritative voice of her father, her first teacher. Jill gathered herself, leaned back, and felt the brush of cold fingers against the side of her neck, a rush of putrid, eager breath across her cheek. Crash, the door flew open and slammed into the bricks behind, and Jill was through, running, remem-bering a warehouse ahead and to the right, her pulse racing. Behind her, rising wails of disappointment, of frustrated hunger, echoing through the alley that was her sa
lvation. A door ahead.

  Please be open, please. . .

  Jill grabbed for the handle, pushed, and the metal door opened into silence, into a well-lit, open space, thank God. . . . . . and she saw a man standing on the main floor, just below the landing she'd stepped onto; she raised the Beretta but didn't fire, quickly assessing him before lowering it again. In spite of his torn and blood-spat-tered clothes, she could tell by his desperate, fearful ex-pression that he wasn't a carrier. . . or at least not one that had changed over yet. Jill felt relief course through her at the sight of an-other person, and suddenly realized just how lonely she'd been. Even having an untrained civilian with her, someone to help who could help her in turn. . . She smiled shakily, moving toward the steps that led down to the main floor, already making changes in her plans. They'd have to find him a weapon, she'd seen an old shotgun at the Bar Jack two days before, unloaded, but they could probably find shells and it was pretty close -

  - 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 probably dead like the rest of them, and if I won't go out there for her, you gotta be insane to think I'm going to go out there for you!"

  Jill jammed the Beretta into the waist of her skirt, quickly holding up both hands, keeping her tone sooth-ing. "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 be-neath 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 Tac-tics 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 metal clink 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 use-less, as useless as trying to reason with him any further. Sighing, she turned and walked back to the steps, care-fully 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 Rac-coon. 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 fire-power. . . 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.