[ ~ p r o l o g u e ~ ]
Cryan Adams was the Captain of Platoon Delta, Squad Gamma in the U.B.C.S. (Umbrella Bio-Hazard Counter-measure Service). His squad was made up of ten men: nine others and himself. They looked up to him (for the most part). His squad was his responsibility. Justin, William, Frank, Arthur, Darian, Burt, Kelly, Sam, and Vern. Nine lives. He would make sure they would all make it back.
The briefing gave information on an evacuation, but he knew Umbrella often got its hands dirty, so he was prepared for anything . . . or so he thought. The chopper was loud. To his right, the leader to Squad B and to his left, the leader to Squad A. He didn't care about either of them. They were both cocky. One he knew had a shady background, the other, the Russian, was just plain creepy.
Cryan's wrist-guard shone a yellow light, notifying him that the mission was about to start . . . then green, the to signal the drop. Four zip-lines dropped from the helicopter and the different squads made the jump, one after another, separating into their respective squads thereafter. Cryan, standing in front of his own squad, made eye contact with each one of his soldiers. It was routine for him.
"Go," came the order over the radio in his ear.
"Let's move. I want two single-file rows. We are taking Route C." Each squad had a their own route. Route C went down L street. "Move out," he ordered and his squad did exactly that. Cryan in the left line, four others behind him, with the other five parallel to them. It was getting dark. They were marching away from sunset. One . . . two . . . three blocks from their drop point, until Cryan held up his hand, signaling a halt. There was a blockade of cars, signs; hell, anything you could pile up to block a road was there. "Alright, we got us a wall to climb. Be careful, and check your footing," he cautioned. Everyone made it safely over the wobbly trash wall and into the next line of road. "Move." They continued on for about a block and stopped once again on his signal. They came upon three intersections which met a section of road, set apart by road-blocks. These two blocks of road are isolated. Why? Cryan clicked on his vest light. The light spilled onto the ground, revealing a bloody mess all around them. As if on cue, moaning came from all around. Figures, slumped, crawled, and staggered towards them. Ten, eleven . . . twenty . . . at least thirty of them.
"Are you injured?" Cryan yelled as they came closer. He tried again. "Are you injured!?" They just kept coming, when all of the sudden, William (damn his heart) couldn't help seeing the boy limping towards them. He broke formation and ran to the boy's aid. As soon as he slung his arm around the boy, the youngster bit him in the side, ripping a chunk out of his hip. Will cried out and toppled over, squirming in agony. "Line!" Cryan called. "Safeties off! OPEN FIRE!!" The boy dropped to his knees, and began to chew on William's neck, tearing out his throat. Cryan took aim, Mother ******** . . . and shot the boy square in the head. The burst of hollow-points blew his skull apart.
"Sir! What the ********!? They keep coming!" Vern cried, panicking.
"I don't know and I don't care! Shoot the head! Everything goes down if shot in the head!" Cryan barked in response.
Darian then screamed as he was literally torn apart. Next to him, Arthur forced back the attackers, not batting an eye at the pieces of his comrade to his immediate left. The infected were too close. They needed to regroup.
"Make a hole in them! Shoot your way through! Down the block, over the barricade! DOUBLE TIME!!"
Cryan looked to Frank, saw him smile. Frank never smiles . . .
"No, Frank!" He didn't make it in time. Next to Arthur, Frank drew two fragmentation grenades, pulled the pins, and ran into the wave of infected. With two ear-shattering explosions, bits of flesh were thrown all over. Cryan's ears were ringing and he knew his comrades' were too, so he waved his arm in the direction of the newly formed hole twice, signaling a move. Arthur was the first to barrel through, b-lining it to the blockade. Justin laid suppressing fire into the infected that were closing the gap, allowing Kelly to make it through. She whipped around, taking over for Justin. Justin shoved Sam though the hole, and tried to do the same with Burt. Burt, being a lot bigger than him, threw Justin ahead, just out of the infected's feral grasp. One on each arm. "Arrrgh!!!" Burt shrieked as he head butted the infected on the right, shattering its decaying head and freeing his arm. He ripped out his .357, a gift from Cryan. He named it Bunny, on account of that sucker's massive kick. Burt placed the nozzle on the other infected's temple and erased its skull in a fine, bloody mist.
Vern saw all that was going on. He was in shock. Meanwhile, Cryan had been unloading burst after burst, clip after clip. He was on his last clip, only fifteen rounds left, which translated to no more than five shots. He looked to Burt. No, Burt! What about 'Frisco . . . ? Burt being swarmed by infected. Burt using his 9" combat knife to dispatch the waves of infected. Burt looking like the Hulk tearing through rabid dogs. Vern put his gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. Poor guy couldn't take the madness any longer.
How many more? Fifteen? until a loud whump resounded no less than twenty feet away. Cryan whirled around to find the wretched form of a beloved comrade. He hot-footed over to the corpse, planting a few rounds into any infected that dared invade his space. As he reached his destination, he ripped out his 9mm and tossed it aside, exchanging it for the .357 his deceased friend was still clutching. He looked down solemnly. Goodbye Burt . . .
Five left. Dispatching those with what ammo he had left, Cryan looked at Vern's corpse with pity. <******** suicide . . . god damn. His wife leaving him couldn't have helped at all. He gently shut Vern's eyelids and secured his ammo. That brings me back to my regular capacity. He didn't even fire one shot . . . except from his 9mm.
"Sir!" Kelly sounded off, alarmed.
"Yes, what is it?"
Kelly, stuttering a bit,"I-it's Will . . . He's walking!"
Cryan spun on his heel to see Will favoring one leg, head hung back where the neck had been torn out. What the Hell? Cryan called out to him, “Will, are you okay?” No way. He has no neck . . . how is he up and moving? “Just sit down man, we will get help,” but Sam ran over to help him. “Stand down soldier!” Sam looked at Cryan, meeting his cold gaze, then broke shortly after to return to Kelly. He has to be dead . . .
The squad took a step back with every step Will took towards them. Wait, no. Not towards them . . . Will dropped to his knees and began to feed on Vern's still warm flesh. Proof enough. Cryan pulled out Bunny, but Kelly shot first, the burst-fire scattering pieces of skull and gray matter onto the street nearby. He had always liked her sense of what is right and what is necessary. Turning away, he rushed over to the other three: Justin, Kelly, and Sam, also taking note that Arthur had taken the courtesy of clearing a path to the blockade. He was kneeling upon the tailgate of a compacted truck within the barricade, rifle switched over to single shot, trying desperately to keep clear the path to salvation.
Cryan blinked to clear his eyes, nearly broken by everything that had just taken place. Slapping a new clip home, he called out, “Line! Single-file! Justin, point. Sam, cover the rear.” He jerked back the bolt on the side of his gun and fell in behind Justin, making for the blockade. Ten seconds passed silently, save the patter of boots on asphalt. Justin had just reached the beginning of the intersection when a man wearing a worn S.T.A.R.S. uniform scurried over the left barricade, through the intersection, and over the right barricade. He actually pushed Justin out of his way, hardly turning his head. He scarcely seemed to noticed anyone was there. The guy was obviously panicking, but why?
“Sstaarrsss,” came a deep voice, and a second later, the entire left barricade exploded. All heads were turned to the burning remains of the automotive road-block. Then IT emerged . . . It was giant. It was hellish. The hulking brute's skin was horribly mutilated, clothed in a tight leather uniform. One eye was stapled shut, and there was no real mouth to speak of; the upper lip seemed to peel back and lower lip receded to neck, exposing a menacing set of teeth. It let a cry out of what was once a face.
Justin lay directly in its path as it advanced. Crunch. Crunch. The gravel beneath its feet seemed to compact with every step it took, probably due to its shear size. It was upon Justin now. He was in shock. He had trouble raising his rifle to the ready, his gaze still locked with the Monster. Coming to his senses, Cryan screamed, “Fire damnit!” as he clicked the switch on his rifle from burst-fire to fully automatic. He held the trigger down, emptying the mag into the Creature and the surrounding area, with Kelly following suit. Arthur sat atop the car barricade, still using single fire. Whether trying to take it down, or simply distract the thing, Cryan did not know. Justin's jaw gaped open, eyes wide with fear as a lilac-colored, tentacle-like appendage raced towards him, when out of nowhere, Sam shoulder-checked him aside. Justin fell to the ground five or six feet from where Sam was now standing, impaled through the chest with that very same tentacle. She screamed in pain, which quickly degraded to a gurgling, then a blood-choked cough as she was lifted off the ground. She grabbed the slimy purple appendage and fired directly into it with her rifle, blowing it apart. She fell a short distance before buckling underneath her own weight, down for the count. The Creature roared furiously, releasing another tentacle, which arced and then slammed into Sam's face, or what used to be.
Damnit, damnit, damnit! Cryan's thoughts raced. Witnessing Sam's death, Justin had gone mad, mad with rage. The monster had taken two full clips from Cryan and Kelly, in addition to another well-placed one from Arthur, and yet it wasn't even phased. The skin seemed too tough to penetrate. Fury exploded from Justin's mouth as he unloaded his clip into the Creature from four feet away. The Beast continued forward. Justin continued raining bullets at near point blank range, but to no avail. The Creature swung its left arm around, back-handing Justin across the jaw and sending him spinning through the air; his limp body did barrel-roll after barrel-roll, finally landing with a solid thud. The thing proceeded towards Justin's slumped figure when Cryan called the retreat. “Fall back! Retreat! Get over that barricade!!”
Justin began to open his eyes, his face swollen and numb, when he was greeted by bottom of the Thing's stumped foot. There was a sickening, wet crunch as the Beast placed his weight into Justin's skull. Kelly faltered for a moment, seeing the horrid display in front of her. Her trigger finger went limp . . . then quickly squeezed again until her rifle clicked dry. Without pausing, Kelly dropped her rifle and unbuckled her grenade belt, swiftly clipping her fanny pack of C4 to it. She then hefted the compound demolition at the Creature.
While Kelly was assembling her chain explosive, Cryan suddenly grasped the full gravity of what was happening. He yelled as loud as he had ever yelled. “Arthur! Get out of here! Run like Hell! Call for evac!” He unclipped his radio and chucked it to Arthur. The radio soared through the air, barely clipping Arthur's fingertips as he reached out to grab it, when his shifty perch betrayed him. The barricade came apart, sending him crashing to the ground, cars toppling over to cover their work.
Kelly was basically at point-blank range with the Beast when she threw her equipment. The belt caught the thing around its neck; an excellent throw . . . but it was too little, too late. The Beast rammed its remaining tentacle through her shoulder, pinning her to the ground. The thing stooped and roared into her blanched face, mere inches away. She chuckled weakly and coughed, before managing to croak her last words: "You should brush more often." She clicked the switch on her remote-detonator.
Cryan was caught off guard as the heat wave, then the brunt of the blast slammed into him, throwing him into the bed of a shabby truck in the last remaining barricade. The bringer of Squad C's obliteration seemed hardly affected by the explosion. It ripped off the remainder of its leather garb and threw it aside, bellowing in victory. One thing entered Cryan's mind as slipped from consciousness.
Arthur . . . you owe me a beer . . . . .
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Scanning...
Caucasian Male 1...Neutralized
Caucasian Male 2...Deceased
Caucasian Male 3...Neutralized
Caucasian Female 1...Deceased
Caucasian Female 2...Deceased
Threat Ratio - 0/2
Continuing Mission: Eliminate all S.T.A.R.S. operatives.
...
Incoming Transmission...
Receiving Orders: Delay mission; rest and recuperate.
Affirmative.
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Cryan began to regain consciousness, blinking weakly to focus onto a gloomy sky. Though his muscles screamed in protest against his attempt to sit up in the truck-bed, he still managed to do so. Scanning the surrounding area, he noted that the barricade he laid upon was still standing. Looking down over the edge, he could see that he was about three cars off the ground. Great . . . now to get down . . . Still looking over the side of the truck, he noticed his rifle laying on the ground, propped up against the curb. He let out a pained groan as he stood up, clenching his right side with his left hand. Ribs are probably bruised . . . could be worse. He rolled over the edge of the truck, dropping down to the hood of the next car, then rolled off, somehow landing on his feet at ground level. The pain in his ribs brought him to a knee. This was going to be irritating.
Cryan scooped up his rifle, then swiveled around to see a few dogs that seemed to be eating a corpse. He pulled the bolt back on his rifle, making sure there was a bullet in the chamber. At the sound of the bolt clicking back, the dogs looked up at him and let out their menacing snarls, dashing towards him. s**t. He raised his rifle, still kneeling, he waited or them to enter a 100 meter radius to avoid wasting ammunition, then burst-fired into the oncoming formation . . . but they were too fast for him to be picky about his shots.
There were four of the hellish things, now two when the lead dog took a burst of death to its neck and head. The second took seven rounds, and the third took only two before it skidded to a halt. The last dog was practically on top of him as he shot off the last burst. The bullets smacked into its chest, but it simply fell, flopped a bit, then got right back up, lunging Cryan's throat. Knowing he was out of ammo, he quickly turned his gun around, slamming the butt of his rifle into the its temple. With a crack, the dog went limp, its momentum continuing on to topple Cryan over onto his back, the corpse landing full on him. The stench of the dog was overwhelming, nearly making him vomit as he pushed off the sticky remains.
Using his gun as a crutch, Cryan observed his surroundings. Small fires from the Monster's RPG and Kelly's explosives still lingered, ready to die out. The barricade that he had last seen Arthur was in pieces, strewn down L street for about a quarter of a block. Cryan sighed, reloaded his rifle, and limped down 13th Street. He recalled from his briefing that a helicopter would be dropping off some U.B.C.S. reinforcements at a church tower at exactly 2300. Checking his wrist-watch, he realized in dismay that it was broken. Frowning to himself, he figured it was worth a try anyway.
Hurrying along, Cryan vaguely remembered the route to the Church. He was fairly certain he could continue down 13th a little further, turn right, and continue for about five to seven blocks before reaching his destination. The ache in his chest was constantly on his mind. His breath became ragged and his limp started to even itself out.
Once Cryan had finally turned right off of 13th street onto J Street, he began to think of what he would do after all of this. Would he return to Umbrella? No, he couldn't do that. He just lost his squad to Umbrella’s sick little game. When he finally came to realize the impact of that, he became furious with Umbrella. He could literally feel his blood heating up as his pace quickened. His pain was forgotten. The fast pace became a brisk jog. About time adrenaline kicks in. Of course not when my comrades are being massacred, but when I find a new vendetta . . .
Cryan could now see the tower, which brought new hopes. He knew he was close, about five more blocks. He was caught off guard by a slight tremble in the ground. For a spilt second, the sky turned orange in the distance. Obviously, something had blown up, and it wasn't something small. Pushing the strange incident to the back of his head, he maintained his steady pace for three blocks, when his ribs began to pain him once more. Damn, that was a short burst of adrenaline. He slowed, grasping his side as if it would help it feel better. What he needed was something to tightly wrap his chest with to keep the ribs from moving. It was clear to him now that his ribs weren’t merely bruised but cracked, with luck, only a hair-line fracture.
Cryan could hear helicopter blades, and soon saw them. Judging the distance from the church, he could see had precious little time. He would make it out of this god-forsaken town, if he hurried.
For safe measure, Cryan crept through the hedge on the left side of the church. He was within 100 feet. The helicopter had just landed, its sliding doors releasing three soldiers, equipped to the teeth. One held a huge duffel bag under his arm, presumably filled with more ammunition. Cryan crept closer, now within mere feet of the ‘copter as another squad of soldiers hopped out of the opposite side. As soon as they had turned their backs and began to leave, Cryan bolted from the bushes and leapt onto the skid just as the helicopter lifted from the ground. His ribs screamed at him as the ‘copter violently pitched to the left. He quickly proceeded to hoist himself up, yank the door open and flop in. Hardly taking time to catch his breath, he took a knee, ripped “Bunny” free and forced the muzzle against the pilot’s panicking skull. Closing the door again with his free hand, Cryan coolly announced, “I know how to fly one of these, so I suggest you fly me out of this town. NOW. I can always pull the trigger and take over for you with the passenger controls.” He slid into the passenger seat, smirking ever so slightly to add to the pilot’s unrest.
The pilot stammered, “O-okay, just don't shoot me, p-please,” ending “please” in a whisper. Cryan watched as the pilot swallowed hard and made an attempt for his sidearm. Cryan didn't like that. He pulled back the hammer on his gun. “No, we won't do anything stupid. If you were planning on that earlier, you missed your chance back when I was climbing inside. By the time your hand reaches that holster, I will have pulled the trigger.” He reached over, taking the liberty of relieving the pilot of his gun and tossing it into the back of the helicopter. “Now, I want you to take me to California,” he said without blinking, noting the copter had a full tank of fuel.
“That would be impossible! I can't make it that far on-”, the pilot was saying when Cryan interrupted.
“Didn't I tell you I know how to fly one of these? Don’t be stupid. I know the guys in Umbrella aren’t. There are bound to be refueling stations all over the states.” He pressed the muzzled against the pilot’s temple.
The pilot wasn’t having it. “You don’t understand! They’ll kill me!” He was a fool after all. He reached down to his boot, bringing Cryan's instincts into effect. He pulled the trigger, spattering blood all over the pilot’s bullet-proof window. Cryan flipped controls over to him and he was on his way. He was done with Umbrella now, save - of course - the helicopter he was currently flying with their logo plastered on its side. At least this way, the skies will be clear. He was willing to bet the control towers would not ask questions, possibly even redirect air traffic.
There was only one thing left to do: go to San Francisco and fulfill his promise. Unfortunately for Cryan, things would not be as expected once he reached his destination . . .
The briefing gave information on an evacuation, but he knew Umbrella often got its hands dirty, so he was prepared for anything . . . or so he thought. The chopper was loud. To his right, the leader to Squad B and to his left, the leader to Squad A. He didn't care about either of them. They were both cocky. One he knew had a shady background, the other, the Russian, was just plain creepy.
Cryan's wrist-guard shone a yellow light, notifying him that the mission was about to start . . . then green, the to signal the drop. Four zip-lines dropped from the helicopter and the different squads made the jump, one after another, separating into their respective squads thereafter. Cryan, standing in front of his own squad, made eye contact with each one of his soldiers. It was routine for him.
"Go," came the order over the radio in his ear.
"Let's move. I want two single-file rows. We are taking Route C." Each squad had a their own route. Route C went down L street. "Move out," he ordered and his squad did exactly that. Cryan in the left line, four others behind him, with the other five parallel to them. It was getting dark. They were marching away from sunset. One . . . two . . . three blocks from their drop point, until Cryan held up his hand, signaling a halt. There was a blockade of cars, signs; hell, anything you could pile up to block a road was there. "Alright, we got us a wall to climb. Be careful, and check your footing," he cautioned. Everyone made it safely over the wobbly trash wall and into the next line of road. "Move." They continued on for about a block and stopped once again on his signal. They came upon three intersections which met a section of road, set apart by road-blocks. These two blocks of road are isolated. Why? Cryan clicked on his vest light. The light spilled onto the ground, revealing a bloody mess all around them. As if on cue, moaning came from all around. Figures, slumped, crawled, and staggered towards them. Ten, eleven . . . twenty . . . at least thirty of them.
"Are you injured?" Cryan yelled as they came closer. He tried again. "Are you injured!?" They just kept coming, when all of the sudden, William (damn his heart) couldn't help seeing the boy limping towards them. He broke formation and ran to the boy's aid. As soon as he slung his arm around the boy, the youngster bit him in the side, ripping a chunk out of his hip. Will cried out and toppled over, squirming in agony. "Line!" Cryan called. "Safeties off! OPEN FIRE!!" The boy dropped to his knees, and began to chew on William's neck, tearing out his throat. Cryan took aim, Mother ******** . . . and shot the boy square in the head. The burst of hollow-points blew his skull apart.
"Sir! What the ********!? They keep coming!" Vern cried, panicking.
"I don't know and I don't care! Shoot the head! Everything goes down if shot in the head!" Cryan barked in response.
Darian then screamed as he was literally torn apart. Next to him, Arthur forced back the attackers, not batting an eye at the pieces of his comrade to his immediate left. The infected were too close. They needed to regroup.
"Make a hole in them! Shoot your way through! Down the block, over the barricade! DOUBLE TIME!!"
Cryan looked to Frank, saw him smile. Frank never smiles . . .
"No, Frank!" He didn't make it in time. Next to Arthur, Frank drew two fragmentation grenades, pulled the pins, and ran into the wave of infected. With two ear-shattering explosions, bits of flesh were thrown all over. Cryan's ears were ringing and he knew his comrades' were too, so he waved his arm in the direction of the newly formed hole twice, signaling a move. Arthur was the first to barrel through, b-lining it to the blockade. Justin laid suppressing fire into the infected that were closing the gap, allowing Kelly to make it through. She whipped around, taking over for Justin. Justin shoved Sam though the hole, and tried to do the same with Burt. Burt, being a lot bigger than him, threw Justin ahead, just out of the infected's feral grasp. One on each arm. "Arrrgh!!!" Burt shrieked as he head butted the infected on the right, shattering its decaying head and freeing his arm. He ripped out his .357, a gift from Cryan. He named it Bunny, on account of that sucker's massive kick. Burt placed the nozzle on the other infected's temple and erased its skull in a fine, bloody mist.
Vern saw all that was going on. He was in shock. Meanwhile, Cryan had been unloading burst after burst, clip after clip. He was on his last clip, only fifteen rounds left, which translated to no more than five shots. He looked to Burt. No, Burt! What about 'Frisco . . . ? Burt being swarmed by infected. Burt using his 9" combat knife to dispatch the waves of infected. Burt looking like the Hulk tearing through rabid dogs. Vern put his gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. Poor guy couldn't take the madness any longer.
How many more? Fifteen? until a loud whump resounded no less than twenty feet away. Cryan whirled around to find the wretched form of a beloved comrade. He hot-footed over to the corpse, planting a few rounds into any infected that dared invade his space. As he reached his destination, he ripped out his 9mm and tossed it aside, exchanging it for the .357 his deceased friend was still clutching. He looked down solemnly. Goodbye Burt . . .
Five left. Dispatching those with what ammo he had left, Cryan looked at Vern's corpse with pity. <******** suicide . . . god damn. His wife leaving him couldn't have helped at all. He gently shut Vern's eyelids and secured his ammo. That brings me back to my regular capacity. He didn't even fire one shot . . . except from his 9mm.
"Sir!" Kelly sounded off, alarmed.
"Yes, what is it?"
Kelly, stuttering a bit,"I-it's Will . . . He's walking!"
Cryan spun on his heel to see Will favoring one leg, head hung back where the neck had been torn out. What the Hell? Cryan called out to him, “Will, are you okay?” No way. He has no neck . . . how is he up and moving? “Just sit down man, we will get help,” but Sam ran over to help him. “Stand down soldier!” Sam looked at Cryan, meeting his cold gaze, then broke shortly after to return to Kelly. He has to be dead . . .
The squad took a step back with every step Will took towards them. Wait, no. Not towards them . . . Will dropped to his knees and began to feed on Vern's still warm flesh. Proof enough. Cryan pulled out Bunny, but Kelly shot first, the burst-fire scattering pieces of skull and gray matter onto the street nearby. He had always liked her sense of what is right and what is necessary. Turning away, he rushed over to the other three: Justin, Kelly, and Sam, also taking note that Arthur had taken the courtesy of clearing a path to the blockade. He was kneeling upon the tailgate of a compacted truck within the barricade, rifle switched over to single shot, trying desperately to keep clear the path to salvation.
Cryan blinked to clear his eyes, nearly broken by everything that had just taken place. Slapping a new clip home, he called out, “Line! Single-file! Justin, point. Sam, cover the rear.” He jerked back the bolt on the side of his gun and fell in behind Justin, making for the blockade. Ten seconds passed silently, save the patter of boots on asphalt. Justin had just reached the beginning of the intersection when a man wearing a worn S.T.A.R.S. uniform scurried over the left barricade, through the intersection, and over the right barricade. He actually pushed Justin out of his way, hardly turning his head. He scarcely seemed to noticed anyone was there. The guy was obviously panicking, but why?
“Sstaarrsss,” came a deep voice, and a second later, the entire left barricade exploded. All heads were turned to the burning remains of the automotive road-block. Then IT emerged . . . It was giant. It was hellish. The hulking brute's skin was horribly mutilated, clothed in a tight leather uniform. One eye was stapled shut, and there was no real mouth to speak of; the upper lip seemed to peel back and lower lip receded to neck, exposing a menacing set of teeth. It let a cry out of what was once a face.
Justin lay directly in its path as it advanced. Crunch. Crunch. The gravel beneath its feet seemed to compact with every step it took, probably due to its shear size. It was upon Justin now. He was in shock. He had trouble raising his rifle to the ready, his gaze still locked with the Monster. Coming to his senses, Cryan screamed, “Fire damnit!” as he clicked the switch on his rifle from burst-fire to fully automatic. He held the trigger down, emptying the mag into the Creature and the surrounding area, with Kelly following suit. Arthur sat atop the car barricade, still using single fire. Whether trying to take it down, or simply distract the thing, Cryan did not know. Justin's jaw gaped open, eyes wide with fear as a lilac-colored, tentacle-like appendage raced towards him, when out of nowhere, Sam shoulder-checked him aside. Justin fell to the ground five or six feet from where Sam was now standing, impaled through the chest with that very same tentacle. She screamed in pain, which quickly degraded to a gurgling, then a blood-choked cough as she was lifted off the ground. She grabbed the slimy purple appendage and fired directly into it with her rifle, blowing it apart. She fell a short distance before buckling underneath her own weight, down for the count. The Creature roared furiously, releasing another tentacle, which arced and then slammed into Sam's face, or what used to be.
Damnit, damnit, damnit! Cryan's thoughts raced. Witnessing Sam's death, Justin had gone mad, mad with rage. The monster had taken two full clips from Cryan and Kelly, in addition to another well-placed one from Arthur, and yet it wasn't even phased. The skin seemed too tough to penetrate. Fury exploded from Justin's mouth as he unloaded his clip into the Creature from four feet away. The Beast continued forward. Justin continued raining bullets at near point blank range, but to no avail. The Creature swung its left arm around, back-handing Justin across the jaw and sending him spinning through the air; his limp body did barrel-roll after barrel-roll, finally landing with a solid thud. The thing proceeded towards Justin's slumped figure when Cryan called the retreat. “Fall back! Retreat! Get over that barricade!!”
Justin began to open his eyes, his face swollen and numb, when he was greeted by bottom of the Thing's stumped foot. There was a sickening, wet crunch as the Beast placed his weight into Justin's skull. Kelly faltered for a moment, seeing the horrid display in front of her. Her trigger finger went limp . . . then quickly squeezed again until her rifle clicked dry. Without pausing, Kelly dropped her rifle and unbuckled her grenade belt, swiftly clipping her fanny pack of C4 to it. She then hefted the compound demolition at the Creature.
While Kelly was assembling her chain explosive, Cryan suddenly grasped the full gravity of what was happening. He yelled as loud as he had ever yelled. “Arthur! Get out of here! Run like Hell! Call for evac!” He unclipped his radio and chucked it to Arthur. The radio soared through the air, barely clipping Arthur's fingertips as he reached out to grab it, when his shifty perch betrayed him. The barricade came apart, sending him crashing to the ground, cars toppling over to cover their work.
Kelly was basically at point-blank range with the Beast when she threw her equipment. The belt caught the thing around its neck; an excellent throw . . . but it was too little, too late. The Beast rammed its remaining tentacle through her shoulder, pinning her to the ground. The thing stooped and roared into her blanched face, mere inches away. She chuckled weakly and coughed, before managing to croak her last words: "You should brush more often." She clicked the switch on her remote-detonator.
Cryan was caught off guard as the heat wave, then the brunt of the blast slammed into him, throwing him into the bed of a shabby truck in the last remaining barricade. The bringer of Squad C's obliteration seemed hardly affected by the explosion. It ripped off the remainder of its leather garb and threw it aside, bellowing in victory. One thing entered Cryan's mind as slipped from consciousness.
Arthur . . . you owe me a beer . . . . .
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Scanning...
Caucasian Male 1...Neutralized
Caucasian Male 2...Deceased
Caucasian Male 3...Neutralized
Caucasian Female 1...Deceased
Caucasian Female 2...Deceased
Threat Ratio - 0/2
Continuing Mission: Eliminate all S.T.A.R.S. operatives.
...
Incoming Transmission...
Receiving Orders: Delay mission; rest and recuperate.
Affirmative.
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Cryan began to regain consciousness, blinking weakly to focus onto a gloomy sky. Though his muscles screamed in protest against his attempt to sit up in the truck-bed, he still managed to do so. Scanning the surrounding area, he noted that the barricade he laid upon was still standing. Looking down over the edge, he could see that he was about three cars off the ground. Great . . . now to get down . . . Still looking over the side of the truck, he noticed his rifle laying on the ground, propped up against the curb. He let out a pained groan as he stood up, clenching his right side with his left hand. Ribs are probably bruised . . . could be worse. He rolled over the edge of the truck, dropping down to the hood of the next car, then rolled off, somehow landing on his feet at ground level. The pain in his ribs brought him to a knee. This was going to be irritating.
Cryan scooped up his rifle, then swiveled around to see a few dogs that seemed to be eating a corpse. He pulled the bolt back on his rifle, making sure there was a bullet in the chamber. At the sound of the bolt clicking back, the dogs looked up at him and let out their menacing snarls, dashing towards him. s**t. He raised his rifle, still kneeling, he waited or them to enter a 100 meter radius to avoid wasting ammunition, then burst-fired into the oncoming formation . . . but they were too fast for him to be picky about his shots.
There were four of the hellish things, now two when the lead dog took a burst of death to its neck and head. The second took seven rounds, and the third took only two before it skidded to a halt. The last dog was practically on top of him as he shot off the last burst. The bullets smacked into its chest, but it simply fell, flopped a bit, then got right back up, lunging Cryan's throat. Knowing he was out of ammo, he quickly turned his gun around, slamming the butt of his rifle into the its temple. With a crack, the dog went limp, its momentum continuing on to topple Cryan over onto his back, the corpse landing full on him. The stench of the dog was overwhelming, nearly making him vomit as he pushed off the sticky remains.
Using his gun as a crutch, Cryan observed his surroundings. Small fires from the Monster's RPG and Kelly's explosives still lingered, ready to die out. The barricade that he had last seen Arthur was in pieces, strewn down L street for about a quarter of a block. Cryan sighed, reloaded his rifle, and limped down 13th Street. He recalled from his briefing that a helicopter would be dropping off some U.B.C.S. reinforcements at a church tower at exactly 2300. Checking his wrist-watch, he realized in dismay that it was broken. Frowning to himself, he figured it was worth a try anyway.
Hurrying along, Cryan vaguely remembered the route to the Church. He was fairly certain he could continue down 13th a little further, turn right, and continue for about five to seven blocks before reaching his destination. The ache in his chest was constantly on his mind. His breath became ragged and his limp started to even itself out.
Once Cryan had finally turned right off of 13th street onto J Street, he began to think of what he would do after all of this. Would he return to Umbrella? No, he couldn't do that. He just lost his squad to Umbrella’s sick little game. When he finally came to realize the impact of that, he became furious with Umbrella. He could literally feel his blood heating up as his pace quickened. His pain was forgotten. The fast pace became a brisk jog. About time adrenaline kicks in. Of course not when my comrades are being massacred, but when I find a new vendetta . . .
Cryan could now see the tower, which brought new hopes. He knew he was close, about five more blocks. He was caught off guard by a slight tremble in the ground. For a spilt second, the sky turned orange in the distance. Obviously, something had blown up, and it wasn't something small. Pushing the strange incident to the back of his head, he maintained his steady pace for three blocks, when his ribs began to pain him once more. Damn, that was a short burst of adrenaline. He slowed, grasping his side as if it would help it feel better. What he needed was something to tightly wrap his chest with to keep the ribs from moving. It was clear to him now that his ribs weren’t merely bruised but cracked, with luck, only a hair-line fracture.
Cryan could hear helicopter blades, and soon saw them. Judging the distance from the church, he could see had precious little time. He would make it out of this god-forsaken town, if he hurried.
For safe measure, Cryan crept through the hedge on the left side of the church. He was within 100 feet. The helicopter had just landed, its sliding doors releasing three soldiers, equipped to the teeth. One held a huge duffel bag under his arm, presumably filled with more ammunition. Cryan crept closer, now within mere feet of the ‘copter as another squad of soldiers hopped out of the opposite side. As soon as they had turned their backs and began to leave, Cryan bolted from the bushes and leapt onto the skid just as the helicopter lifted from the ground. His ribs screamed at him as the ‘copter violently pitched to the left. He quickly proceeded to hoist himself up, yank the door open and flop in. Hardly taking time to catch his breath, he took a knee, ripped “Bunny” free and forced the muzzle against the pilot’s panicking skull. Closing the door again with his free hand, Cryan coolly announced, “I know how to fly one of these, so I suggest you fly me out of this town. NOW. I can always pull the trigger and take over for you with the passenger controls.” He slid into the passenger seat, smirking ever so slightly to add to the pilot’s unrest.
The pilot stammered, “O-okay, just don't shoot me, p-please,” ending “please” in a whisper. Cryan watched as the pilot swallowed hard and made an attempt for his sidearm. Cryan didn't like that. He pulled back the hammer on his gun. “No, we won't do anything stupid. If you were planning on that earlier, you missed your chance back when I was climbing inside. By the time your hand reaches that holster, I will have pulled the trigger.” He reached over, taking the liberty of relieving the pilot of his gun and tossing it into the back of the helicopter. “Now, I want you to take me to California,” he said without blinking, noting the copter had a full tank of fuel.
“That would be impossible! I can't make it that far on-”, the pilot was saying when Cryan interrupted.
“Didn't I tell you I know how to fly one of these? Don’t be stupid. I know the guys in Umbrella aren’t. There are bound to be refueling stations all over the states.” He pressed the muzzled against the pilot’s temple.
The pilot wasn’t having it. “You don’t understand! They’ll kill me!” He was a fool after all. He reached down to his boot, bringing Cryan's instincts into effect. He pulled the trigger, spattering blood all over the pilot’s bullet-proof window. Cryan flipped controls over to him and he was on his way. He was done with Umbrella now, save - of course - the helicopter he was currently flying with their logo plastered on its side. At least this way, the skies will be clear. He was willing to bet the control towers would not ask questions, possibly even redirect air traffic.
There was only one thing left to do: go to San Francisco and fulfill his promise. Unfortunately for Cryan, things would not be as expected once he reached his destination . . .