Immediately he started arguing with himself. Yeah, be careful, but are you going to leave her all alone? She said that monster was after her...
He joked about it sometimes, but he wasn't truly a sexist; she could take care of herself, as she'd already proven. And if shewas one of Umbrella's spies ... well, she deserved what she got, then, didn't she?
"I—I wouldn't feel right about leaving without at least trying to find some of the others," he said, and now that he knew there was a way out, he realized it was true. Even an hour ago, the thought would have
been ridiculous; now, armed with Trent's information, everything had changed. He was still scared, sure, but actuallyknowing something about the situation made him feel less vulnerable somehow. In spite of the risks, he wanted to walk a few more blocks before he left town, make some attempt to helpsomeone. He wanted time to think, to make up his mind.
That... and knowing that she survived means that I can, too.
"I saw the gate you're talking about, the one over by the newspaper office,si? Why don't I meet you there ... or better yet, at the cable car."
Jill frowned, then nodded. "Okay. I'll go back to the restaurant while you look around, and I'll wait for you at the trolley. Once you go through the gate, just follow the path and keep to the left, you'll see signs for Lons-daleYard."
For a few seconds, neither spoke, and Carlos saw, in the careful way she looked at him, that Jill had her own misgivings about him. Her leeriness made him trust her a little more; if shewas anti-Umbrella, it made sense that she wouldn't be too hot on hanging out with one of their employees.
Stop debating it and just go, for Christ's sake!
"Don't leave without me," Carlos said, meaning for it to come out lightly. He sounded dead serious.
"Don't make me wait too long," she returned and smiled, and he thought that maybe she was okay after all. Then she turned and jogged lightly away, back down the walk they'd entered by.
Carlos watched her leave, wondering if he was crazy for not going with her—and after a moment, he turned
and walked quickly toward the other exit before he could change his mind.
For someone who was bleeding like a stuck pig,
Mikhail was surprisingly swift. For at least twenty minutes Nicholai had followed the trail of dark droplets through a blockade, over gravel and asphalt, grass and debris, and still he hadn't sighted the dying man.
Perhapsdyingis too strong a word, considering...
Nicholai had planned to give up if he wasn't able to find the platoon leader after a few minutes, but the longer he searched, the more determined he became.
He found himself getting angry, too—how dare Mikhail run from his just punishment? Who did he think he was, wasting Nicholai's precious time? To frustrate him even further, Mikhail had covered quite a distance and was leading him back into town; another block or so and he'd be at the RPD building again.
Nicholai opened another door, scanned another room, sighed. Mikhail had to know that he was being followed—or he just didn't have the good sense to lay down and die. Either way, it wouldn't,couldn't be long now.
Nicholai walked through a small, orderly office, apparently attached to a parking garage, the erratic blood trail shining purple on the blue linoleum by the caged bare bulbs overhead. The splatters seemed to be thinning; either Mikhail was bleeding out—unlikely, it seemed—or he had found time to staunch his wound.
Nicholai gritted his teeth, reassuring himselfHe'll be weak, slowing down, perhaps looking for a place to rest. I saw the hit, he can't go on much longer.
He stepped out into the dark, cavernous garage, the cold air thick with the smells of gasoline and grease— and something else. He stopped, breathed deeply. A weapon had been fired recently, he was sure of it.
He moved quickly and silently across the cement, edging around a white van that blocked one of the rows of cars, and saw what appeared to be a dog sprawled in a puddle of blood, its strange body curled in a fetal position.
He hurried toward it, disgusted and thrilled at once. They'd warned him about the dogs, how quickly they became infected, and he knew that research had been conducted on their viability as weapons at the Spencer estate...
...and they were deemed too dangerous when they turned on their handlers. Untrainable, and their decay rate higher than the other organics.
Truly, the half-skinned animal at his feet looked and smelled like a piece of raw meat that had sat in the sun for too long. Accustomed as he was to death, Nicholai still felt his gorge rise at the stench, but he continued to study the creature, certain that the canine had been the target of recent gunplay.
Sure enough. Two entry wounds below the torn flap of its left ear... but not from an Ml6, the holes were much too big. Nicholai backed away, frowning. Someone besides Mikhail Victor had come through the garage in the last half hour, and probably not a U.B.C.S. soldier, unless they'd brought their own weapon, probably a handgun—
Nicholai heard something. His head snapped up, his attention on the exit door, ahead at two o'clock. A soft
sliding sound, an infected human brushing against the door, perhaps—or perhaps a wounded man, slumped and dying against the exit, too exhausted to press on.
Nicholai moved toward the door, hopeful—and grinned at the sound of Mikhail's voice, strained and weak, floating past the aging metal.
"No ... get away!"
Nicholai eagerly pushed the door open, wiping the smile off his face as he assessed the situation. A vast wrecking yard, gated, vehicles piled in a useless barricade, two more dead dogs limp on the cold ground.
Mikhail lay next to the garage door, partially propped against the wall and trying desperately to lift his rifle. His pale face was beaded with sweat and his hands shook wildly. Five meters away, half of a person was pulling itself toward the downed man on shredded fingertips, its rot-sexless face corrupted into a leering perma-grin. Its progress was achingly slow but constant; it seemed that
having no lower body—certainly not a complete digestive system—didn't stop the carrier from wanting to eat.
Do I play the hero, save my leader from being gnawed to death? Or do I enjoy the show?
"Nicholai, help me, please ...," Mikhail rasped, rolling his head to look up at him, and Nicholai found he couldn't resist. The idea that Mikhail would be grateful to him for saving his life seemed extraordinarily ...funny, for lack of a better term.
"Hang on, Mikhail," Nicholai said forcefully. "I'll take care of it!"
He dashed forward and jumped, slamming his boot heel into the carrier's skull, grimacing as a large section of its matted scalp sloughed wetly away from the bone.
He brought his heel down again, and a third time, and the once-human died in a thick, splinteringcrunch, its arms spasming, its fleshless fingertips dancing briefly on the asphalt.
Nicholai turned, hurrying back to kneel next to Mikhail.
"What happened?" he asked, voice heavy with concern as he gazed down at Mikhail's bloody stomach. "Did one of them get you?"
Mikhail shook his head, closing his eyes as if too exhausted to keep them open. "Somebody shot me."
"Who? Why?" Nicholai did his best to sound shocked.
"I don't know who, or why. I thought someone was following me, too, but—maybe they just thought I was one ofthem. A zombie."
Actually, that's not so far from the truth...Nicholai had to stifle another grin; he deserved an award for his performance.
"I saw... at least a few men got away," Mikhail whispered. "If we can get to the evac site, call in the transport... "
The St. Michael Clock Tower was the alleged evacuation site, where the soldiers were supposed to take the civilian survivors. Nicholai knew the truth—that a reconnaissance team would put down first disguised as