September 27. Raccoon City. 5:00 PM
Time did not exist for John Wick, only the cycle of the hunt and survival. After bandaging the wound on his side with improvised cloth, exhaustion settled over him like a heavy blanket. He lay back in the darkest corner of the third-floor room, his back against a cold wall and the adrenaline pulse slowing to a more leisurely pace.
Despite his exhaustion, his senses remained on high alert. Every sound, every creak of the building, was a possible omen of danger. However, his body, which had been in constant motion, demanded a brief rest. Fatigue won the battle against paranoia, and his eyes closed, sinking into a light and shallow nap.
The brief period of calm was interrupted by distant voices. They were whispers, a conversation that seemed to be coming from the building's first floor. His mind, trained to recognize patterns, immediately analyzed the situation. The abandoned building the taxi driver had shown him was desolate on the outside, but traces of life inside were evident: empty bottles, fresh graffiti, and now, voices.
They were intruders. Vagrants, perhaps, or urban explorers, he thought. They aren't a problem, unless they see me. The idea of having to deal with innocent civilians was a nuisance.
With a swift and silent movement, he stood up. He put his suit back on, which concealed his bandage and allowed him to keep his armor on at all times. His hand went to his silenced pistol, his most loyal companion. With his backpack on his back, containing his equipment and additional ammunition, he moved with unnatural stealth toward the hallway and stopped at the entrance to the stairs. He crouched down, using the wall as cover, and sharpened his hearing to listen more.
There were several voices, from a group of at least four people, judging by the tone and volume. Their words, indistinct at first, became clearer as they approached. A moment later, the voices became alarmed.
"What's that strong smell?" said a man's voice, with a tone of disgust.
"Yeah, it smells awful. Like something rotten," another replied, with a hint of disgust in his voice.
John, with annoyance spreading across his face, remembered the taxi driver. He had left him dead on the second floor. The stench of the corpse had undoubtedly been what had alerted the newcomers. They were nothing more than curious people, but they could call the police, and the police, in this city, were Umbrella. He couldn't allow it.
He heard footsteps coming up the stairs, and the conversation became more audible.
"This is crazy, we shouldn't be here," said a trembling voice.
"Come on, it's just a smell, what's the worst that can happen?" replied another, with a braver tone.
The footsteps stopped abruptly on the second floor. A tense silence took over the place. The stench is stronger there, John thought. They're going to find him. The idea of his presence becoming known bothered him. He wanted to be invisible.
Suddenly, a sharp scream echoed through the building, followed by a chorus of terror-filled exclamations.
"Run! Run! There's a fucking dead guy here!" a voice shouted, its breath ragged.
"We shouldn't have come, I told you! Damn it, I told you!" another replied, his voice trembling with fear.
"We have to call the police! Now! We have to warn someone!" a third demanded, the panic palpable in her tone.
"Oh my God, his face... for God's sake! Let's get out of here, fast!"
John sighed, an almost inaudible sound that was lost in the air. It was inevitable. He would have to move. He couldn't let them see him, and he couldn't let them alert the authorities.
Using the darkness as his cloak of invisibility, he moved away from the building. He entered the alleys, a labyrinth of trash and shadows that offered an escape from curious glances. The main streets, full of people, were not a safe place for him. The alleys, while not a total refuge, were less crowded.
As he moved, dodging garbage bags and puddles of water, his mind remained on alert. He saw a couple of homeless people sleeping on cardboard. In a garbage can, he found a broken umbrella. It had small holes in the fabric, which was probably why it had been discarded, but for John, it was perfect. He could use it to hide his face and go unnoticed in the crowd. He took it and opened it, holding it so that it covered his face, like an improvised mask.
As he walked, his thoughts focused on a place to spend the night. He looked at his watch: 5:35 PM. Nightfall would come soon, and with it, danger. Darkness was not always an ally, especially if you were in Umbrella's sights.
At a turn in the alley, he saw two men. They were smoking, and the sweet smell floating in the air confirmed what they were. John hurried. He didn't need unnecessary problems. Not now, not while he could avoid them. With the umbrella covering his face, he kept a hand close to his pistol.
He was two meters from them when one whispered to the other.
"Hey, look at that guy. So well-dressed! With that backpack and that suit... This is a stroke of luck, brother!"
"He probably has money. Enough to buy a couple of doses for the whole week," said the other, with a toothless smile.
John, oblivious to the whisper, continued on his way. When he was about to pass them, a voice stopped him.
"Hey, you. Stop!"
"Got the time?"
John stopped. A sigh of annoyance escaped him. He raised his wrist, looked at his watch, and without turning around, he replied.
"It's 5:35 in the afternoon."
He turned to leave, but the other man called him again. Both of them were approaching him.
"Don't go so fast, friend. That watch... it's very nice," one said, his eyes fixed on the piece.
"I wonder how much it's worth."
"I bet it's what his dad's suit cost," the other joked, laughing.
The sigh of resignation that escaped John was almost a groan. He didn't have time for this. He couldn't afford a street altercation. Not when the whole city was looking for him. Every second he spent here was one more second for people to recognize him and alert Umbrella. He couldn't risk being seen. A sigh. He lifted the umbrella a little to see the two idiots who dared to stand in his way.
Both men, seeing his cold, lifeless gaze, were petrified. Their smiles vanished, their eyes widened in shock, as if they had seen death in person. And so it was. Without a single word, without a sigh, John Wick took his silenced pistol from his suit. He aimed and fired. Two shots. Two headshots. The bodies fell to the ground without a sound.
The silencer had done its job, and the only witnesses to the scene were the piles of trash and the shadows. The two men didn't have time to react. Everything happened in the blink of an eye. John, without a single hint of remorse, put his weapon away and continued on his way, with the umbrella still covering his face, as if nothing had happened.
The blood on the sidewalk mixed with the rainwater that began to fall, slowly and gradually. The sky had darkened, as an omen of the danger that was approaching. John, imperturbable, continued on his way. The umbrella he had taken, although defective, had become his only protection against the gaze of the people. Drops of water filtered through the small holes, wetting his hair and face, but he didn't care. His mind was an impenetrable fortress, focused on one thing: survival.
As he advanced, John's internal thoughts swirled, a whirlwind of decisions that had to be made. The police, and therefore Umbrella, already knew he was in the city. He had to find a safe place, a hiding place where he could spend the night and plan his next move. He thought of several places. An abandoned building. A hotel. A hospital. But they were all too obvious. They could be watched, or worse, already controlled by Umbrella. He needed something different, a place where no one would look for a man like him.
As he walked, he blended in with the crowd, who were taking out their umbrellas to protect themselves from the rain. John's umbrella allowed him to go unnoticed, just one more shadow among many. He heard fragments of conversations, whispers that confirmed the situation in the city.
"Did you hear the news?" a woman next to him said. "The mayor is going to make a monument in honor of the children who died at the school."
"Yes, I saw the news. It's terrible! What a monster could do something like that..." another replied, with a tone full of repulsion. "And what a coincidence, tomorrow. They will do it at the school itself. What an honorable act on the part of our mayor."
John didn't pay attention to them. People's rumors, the news, public opinion... he didn't care. People thought he was a monster. It wasn't the first time he had done it, and it wouldn't be the last. After all, he was John Wick. A killer.
His eyes, in search of a refuge, fell on something unusual. A paper boat, floating in the current of water that the rain had formed on the sidewalk. The small boat sailed for a couple of meters until it stopped, right next to a sewer. Suddenly, a brilliant idea, a revelation, came to him.
The sewers. They were an underground labyrinth, the city's network of veins. They could be his sanctuary, his personal highway to move undetected. The idea was perfect. It was the last place anyone would look for John Wick.
With a new goal in mind, John headed to an alley. He found a less visible manhole cover, partially hidden by a pile of trash. Quickly, he knelt, leaving his backpack and umbrella aside, and looked for something metallic to pry with. He found a rusty metal bar and, with minimal effort, lifted the heavy lid.
A gust of dense, nauseating air hit his face. A smell of human waste and mold, an aroma so intense that it made him wrinkle his face in disgust. Quickly, he threw his backpack inside, followed closely, and closed the umbrella. With the same silence that characterized him, he went down the stairs. Once his feet touched the ground, he let go of the umbrella and left it aside. He closed the manhole cover again and put on his backpack.
The contrast with the surface was abysmal. The darkness was almost total, only broken by the light of a flashlight in his hand. The air seemed scarce and the stench was almost unbearable, but John didn't care. He had been in much worse places. "It's not the Continental suite, that's for sure," he thought with a bitter irony, as his eyes adapted to the darkness. "But it's safe. And that's all that matters right now."
The sewers were a world apart. The stench of damp and decomposition clung to his clothes and skin, a constant reminder that he was underground, in the bowels of a city about to collapse. The darkness was almost total, only broken by the beam of his flashlight. His footsteps echoed on the cement, an echo that was lost in the immensity of the labyrinth.
As he walked, John came to a tunnel that forked. One path led to a dead end, and the other to a steel door. The door was imposing, with a logo engraved in the center: the shape of an umbrella. His mind, a file of information on the criminal world, activated. Umbrella. The pharmaceutical company that controlled the city, the same one that had founded the city's police force, the same name he had been hearing on the Raccoon radio.
John couldn't help but feel a pang of surprise. The company, a front pharmaceutical corporation, had laboratories underground. He approached the door, his hand on the handle. It was closed. John moved around the place, and noticed something. A generator. Air ducts. A ventilation system. It was a life support system, and that meant there were people.
Just as John was about to go back, he heard voices in the background. They were two men. He hid in the darkness, his silenced pistol in hand, a ghost waiting in the shadows.
"Did you hear the news?" said one of the voices. "The mayor is going to make a monument at the school. A waste of time and resources. Why doesn't he do it in our name? After all, we're the ones who are going to save the city."
"It's a front, a public relations act," the other voice replied. "Umbrella doesn't care about the mayor. It cares about progress. Science. We'll see the company's true face. We have all the control of this city."
John, with a calm that came from years of experience, observed the two men. Both wore black combat uniforms, with the Umbrella logo on their chests. They were carrying MP5 submachine guns, and they moved with the confidence of those who believed they were alone.
John waited for the moment. The first soldier went forward and John, with a movement as fast and silent as a snake, moved behind him. He wrapped his arm around the soldier's throat and put his hand over his mouth. The soldier barely had time to react before John took him into the shadows, dragging him into the darkness of the alley.
The other soldier, not hearing his companion, turned to see what was happening, but it was already too late. John, who moved with an inhuman speed, had him in his sights. He shot him in the knee, and the man fell to the ground, his scream muffled by the sound of the silencer. Quickly, with a fluid movement, John kicked his hands, disarming him.
The man, writhing in pain on the ground, looked at him. Despite the gloom, he recognized the figure.
"So you're the asshole who messed with Umbrella," he said with a sarcastic smile, full of contempt and pain.
John did not flinch. The provocation was nothing more than noise. His voice was a low and dangerous whisper. "What is Umbrella doing here, in the sewers?"
The soldier let out a painful laugh, which turned into a grimace of agony. "Go to hell," he snapped.
John's patience ran out. He put his weapon away, grabbed the man by the collar of his uniform, and dragged him a few meters, toward the stream of wastewater that circulated in the center of the tunnel. The soldier paled, his smile disappeared. He understood John's intentions.
"Last chance," John said, his gaze fixed on the soldier's terrified eyes. "Answer my questions or I'll give you a shit water bath until you swallow it."
The man remained silent, but his hand moved stealthily to the side of his leg. John, with his keen sense of observation, suspected it was a hidden weapon. He didn't waste time. He took out his pistol and fired. The silencer muffled the sound of the shot, and the soldier's hand exploded in a bloody hole, blood gushing from the wound. The soldier screamed, a scream of pure, visceral pain that mixed with the sound of the water.
John, tired and in a hurry, told him: "You asked for it." Without waiting for a response, he grabbed him by the neck with force. The soldier, his face a mask of terror, screamed: "No, please, stop!" But John didn't listen. With brutal speed, he plunged his entire head into the stream of wastewater. The stench and taste of the filth flooded him. He thrashed in a panic, but John held him with an iron grip. After about thirty seconds, he pulled him out of the water.
The stench of shit was overwhelming. "Looks like you'll have to take a bath," John said with a mocking tone. The man couldn't take it anymore. He turned around and started vomiting, bile and dirty water mixing on the ground. John stepped back a little, waiting.
When the soldier finished, he turned to look at John, his eyes full of fear and pain. John asked him again, with no emotion in his voice: "Are you going to answer or do you want another bath?"
The soldier, with a trembling voice, screamed: "No, please! Don't put me in the water again!"
"I'll only do it if you lie to me or don't answer my questions," John replied coldly.
"What... what do you want to know?" the soldier said, hurried and nervous.
"I already asked," John said, his voice impassive. "What is Umbrella doing here? And is the mayor involved?"
The soldier, without hesitation, responded quickly, releasing the information as if it were an overflowing river. "Umbrella and the mayor work together, along with the city's police chief. These sewers lead to an underground Umbrella laboratory, which is under the direction of Dr. William Birkin."
John, upon hearing that name again, showed a flash of interest in his eyes. "Birkin," he whispered to himself. Then, his attention returned to the man. "Do you know how to get to the laboratory?"
"No... I don't know," the soldier replied, his voice broken.
The coldness on John's face hardened. "Looks like you want to take another dip, huh?"
The soldier screamed, "I really don't know!" but John didn't pay attention to him. With a firm hand, he submerged him in the water again. The man tried to hold his breath, but the water got into his ears, and the discomfort and lack of oxygen forced him to open his mouth. After another thirty seconds, John pulled him out. The man vomited again, the stench of shit mixing with the vomit. John stepped aside, observing him.
The man looked at him with extreme fear and said as fast as he could: "I don't know where the Umbrella laboratory is. We are in charge of securing the supplies that arrive from the hospital and transporting certain test subjects. There is another team that is in charge of transporting those supplies to the laboratory."
John, upon hearing that explanation, seemed a little convinced. "Why didn't you say that before?" he said, his tone mocking. "Is it because you've gotten a taste for that water?"
The man, with anger, replied: "I didn't have time to say that!"
John asked another question: "How do you get to where your job is, to secure the supplies, and how many soldiers are there?"
"This way, sir!" the soldier exclaimed, quickly pointing down the tunnel to the left. "Follow the main tunnel, you will pass two side tunnels and at the third tunnel, turn right! There is an access grate that leads outside, to an alley. Our post is about a hundred meters from there! There are about 20 soldiers, I swear!"
John nodded with the information. "One last question," he said. "Is that all?"
The man, nervously, nodded, saying that was all he knew. John stood up. The soldier, with pleading eyes, asked: "Are you going to kill me?" John didn't answer. He just took out his weapon and shot him in the head. Without hesitation, the man died in less than two seconds.
John crouched down. There was no time for regrets or pity. With a quick movement, he took the fallen soldier's MP5 submachine gun. He crossed the nylon strap it had over his chest, so the weapon hung from his body, ready to be used.
Then, he checked the ammunition of both soldiers. The bloody hands of the second man, the one he had just killed, were full of cartridges. John took them all, and placed them on his belt, arranging them in the empty compartments he had. Next, he took the MP5 and checked it, making sure the safety was on, the magazine was full, and the barrel was clean.
All in order. With a confident step, John headed toward the tunnel the soldier had indicated, disappearing again into the darkness of the sewers..
Author's note: I haven't seen any more support for power stones, please, if you like the story, donate power stones so that it can reach more people.