September 28th. Raccoon City. 4:05 P.M.
John was not a man of rest. The ammunition for his Colt Commando assault rifle was about to run out, but his hand did not tremble. With a cold and lethal precision, he continued to take down the infected approaching the barricade. One shot, one dead. Another shot, another dead. The horde was shrinking, but it was not stopping. It seemed that for every infected that fell, two more took their place, emerging from the shadows of buildings or crawling from the alleys. The ammunition felt heavy in his rifle, a countdown that echoed with every shot. The echo of the dry, precise shots from his rifle mixed with the growls of the horde.
Alex was shouting, his voice full of renewed hope. "We're holding on! They're helping us! There's someone out there with us!"
Ben, with his truncheon raised, turned to Sofia, with a savage smile on his face. "I told you they weren't going to abandon us! Look how they're falling! Look, everyone! It's not just a few; it's like an invisible force is eliminating them!"
Doña Carmen, her face illuminated by faith, knelt, her hands clasped in prayer, with a shine in her eyes that she hadn't had in days. "It's a miracle! God has sent an angel, an answer to our prayers!"
But the joy was short-lived. John, with his ear trained for danger, heard a sound that chilled his blood. The growls of the infected were mixing with the sound of footsteps. They were not the shuffling steps of the infected, but quick and determined steps. Upon turning, he saw about twenty infected climbing the stairs that led to the rooftop, a wave of rotten flesh moving with a voracious hunger.
"Damn it!", John whispered, his voice an exhalation of frustration. The problem was not the number of infected, but the fact that his position was about to be compromised.
In a fluid motion, he reloaded his assault rifle, drew his silenced pistol from his other hand, and aimed at the first infected that appeared. One shot, one dead. Another shot, another dead. Three more were climbing the stairs. With the pistol in his right hand, John aimed quickly and shot one in the head. At the same time, he threw one of his combat knives with his left hand, sinking it into the forehead of another. The third infected lunged at him. John dodged it with agility, and shot it squarely in the head.
It all happened in the blink of an eye, a choreography of deadly precision. John turned, his gaze fixed on the barricade, where the horde was still advancing. He fired his assault rifle, knowing that each bullet was one less he had to defend himself with. The fury in his eyes was cold and calculated, a silent storm raging inside him. He knew he couldn't hold the position for much longer. The horde was infinite, and his bullets were limited.
At that instant, a series of powerful shots thundered in the street. A different sound, much more organized than the desperate screams. A burst of bullets that eliminated the vast majority of the infected, knocking them down with brutal efficiency. John, for a moment, stopped to watch. A military convoy was approaching, from which soldiers dressed entirely in black, with gas masks, emerged. Their weapons were high-tech, unlike the improvised weapons of the survivors. The scene was that of a professional military rescue, or at least that's what it seemed like.
"Help has arrived!", shouted Alex. "We're safe! Finally, real help!"
Doña Carmen stood up, her face bathed in relief. "Glory to God! Our prayers were heard! They are our saviors!"
Sofia hugged her son tightly, her tears now of relief. "See, my love! We're safe! I told you!"
Despite the survivors' relief, John didn't trust them. There was something about those uniforms, in the aura of coldness and order that surrounded them. The Umbrella symbol, the red and white umbrella on their uniforms, was a warning. A trap. He put the assault rifle's strap over his chest and crouched down. With a quick and silent movement, he slipped toward the barricade, but a noise on the stairs made him stop. A dozen infected, who had dodged his attack, were climbing the stairs.
"Damn," John whispered. The situation was critical. His heart pounded. He had a bad feeling. He couldn't risk exposing his position. He couldn't shoot with the rifle. He would have to do it silently, quickly. He shot the first infected in the head. The others piled up to see their companion fall, and John, taking the opportunity, shot the others with surgical precision, and while reloading, he threw his knives. The knives cut through the air and embedded themselves in the neck of several infected.
A choreography of deadly precision that would scare the bravest of warriors. John moved with grace and agility, his movements were fluid, a dance of death. And while he was busy with the remaining infected, down below, the Umbrella soldiers approached the survivors.
The squad leader, with a cold and authoritarian voice, gave the order. "Take the survivors and put them in a line."
"No, please!", shouted Sofia, clinging to her son, her voice full of panic. "Don't do this! I thought you had come to help us!"
"I thought you were help!", shouted Ben, his voice full of desperation. "What are you doing!"
Alex, with a pale face, tried to stop the soldiers, but was knocked down by a blow to the stomach with the butt of a rifle. "We have nothing to do with this! Don't kill innocent people!"
"Silence!", the leader barked. "Put them in a line, now! You have been given an order!"
The soldiers didn't hesitate. With brutality, they forced the survivors to their knees. Doña Carmen, with her eyes closed, began to pray out loud, asking for God's mercy, a desperate plea in a world without pity. Sofia, with tears in her eyes, hugged her son, protecting him with her body, her last defense. The fear was palpable, a bitter stench that floated in the air. The survivors were in shock, unable to understand what was happening, their minds trapped in a nightmare.
The leader raised his hand. He approached Ben and whispered to him. "No one can know what happened here. Neutralize any witnesses."
Ben, with his face full of terror, looked at the leader, his eyes pleading. "No... no, please... I swear we won't say anything..."
The leader lowered his hand. A simple gesture. A deadly gesture. The soldiers, with their weapons smoking, fired a burst of bullets. The sound was a storm of lead, a roar of death that drowned out the screams of the survivors. John, who was on the rooftop, about to finish off the last of the infected, heard the screams and the shots. He peeked over, his mind blank, his heart pounding.
The barricade, which had recently been a beacon of hope, had turned into a tomb. The survivors lay on the ground, their bodies shattered. Doña Carmen. Alex. Ben. Sofia. The child. Everyone. The barricade was now a cemetery of souls.
The initial surprise was replaced by a fury so intense it burned in his veins. The Umbrella soldiers. The convoy. The slaughter. Everything clicked in an instant. John, with his heart pounding, could barely process the scene: the bodies of the survivors, who just seconds before had been filled with hope, were now inert on the ground, their bodies shattered.
The anger, a cold and calculating fury, took hold of him, but he didn't have time to act, as he could hear the footsteps of the infected approaching behind him. In a matter of seconds, twenty infected that he had avoided, were approaching him, ready to attack. Their growls resonated on the rooftop, a chorus of approaching death.
At that moment, John found himself in a dilemma. He couldn't expose his position to the Umbrella soldiers. Nor could he spend the few bullets he had left on the infected. Quickly, his mind processed all the options, calculating escape routes and angles of attack.
His brain, a data processor at the speed of light, discarded the possibilities one by one: direct combat was impossible, the number of enemies was overwhelming. The only viable option was one that required a great deal of risk: jumping to the roof of a building that was about eight meters away, below the ledge of his current position.
It was a maneuver that, even for a man of his caliber, was extremely risky. But it was the only option. Without hesitation, he quickly turned, dodging the hands of the approaching infected, and threw the Colt Commando assault rifle and his backpack, which fell onto the lower roof of the other building. And without thinking any more, he threw himself into the void.
The cold, contaminated air of Raccoon City felt like a slap in the face. His body, trained and toned, felt a rush of adrenaline. The seconds of the fall felt like an eternity. As he fell, he saw the infected chasing him. A few tried to follow him, jumping into the void, only to crash into the ground in a jumble of bones and flesh. An instant death.
John, however, was focused on his landing. As he fell, he flexed his knees and contracted his muscles to dissipate the force of the impact. He landed on a pile of dusty tarps that were on the roof, which cushioned the blow. A vibration ran through his ankles, but he managed to keep them from breaking. The pain was tremendous, but he ignored it, as his mind was focused on the next step.
Upon getting up, he dusted himself off and took the assault rifle and the backpack. He reloaded the rifle with the ammunition he had in the backpack. From his new position, John peered over the edge of the roof and watched the Umbrella soldiers. He saw them inspecting the bodies of the survivors, with a coldness and a lack of emotion that could only mean one thing: they were not there to save anyone.
The voice of their boss resonated in their communicators, a dry and merciless order. "Check the bodies. If there are any survivors, eliminate them. No one can get out of here alive."
The soldiers obeyed. With a chilling coldness, they moved among the bodies, kicking them to ensure there were no signs of life. A soldier approached the body of Sofia, the mother who had died protecting her child. Roughly, he kicked the body. The child, Leo, who had been sobbing in silence, couldn't contain the cry of pain. The bullets had been cushioned by his mother's body, which allowed him to survive.
"There's one alive here!", the soldier shouted, pointing his weapon at the child's head. "I found a witness!"
The squad leader, a man with a hard face and cold eyes, was about to give the order: "Ki...". The sound of an assault rifle shot interrupted the word. The soldier who was pointing at the child fell to the ground with a clean hole in his head. The other soldiers reacted quickly, looking for him everywhere. But they couldn't find him. A precise shot, and another soldier fell, with a bullet in the head. A third, with a shot in the chest, fell to the ground with a scream.
Chaos erupted. The four remaining soldiers, with the experience that could only be gained in combat, sought cover. "Take cover! It's a sniper!", the leader shouted on his communicator. His voice, a mixture of surprise and rage, ordered two of his men to flank John's position, while he and another soldier provided covering fire. "Alpha Two, Alpha Four! Flank his position. Now!", he ordered urgently. "Don't let him get away!". John, taking advantage of the infected who had followed the soldiers, moved quickly. Without hesitation, he threw the assault rifle and his backpack to the ground. And without thinking twice, he launched himself onto a dumpster that was between the two buildings, which allowed him to reach the ground.
The impact was strong, but not enough to break a bone. The pain was intense, but the adrenaline suppressed it. He got out of the dumpster, picked up the assault rifle and the MP5 from his backpack. He hung the MP5 on one side of his shoulder, while holding the assault rifle in his hands. He needed to move fast; he couldn't stay in one place. John moved quickly, his silhouette a shadow moving between the wrecked cars. He could see the two soldiers approaching, moving stealthily to surround him. But they didn't know that John Wick was already in position.
John pulled out his silenced pistol. He couldn't risk using the rifle, as his ammunition was very scarce. He had to be fast and silent enough not to attract the attention of the other two soldiers who were providing covering fire. He waited patiently, with the pistol aimed at the soldiers' heads. Two shots. Two soldiers fell, without knowing where the shot had come from.
John ran, his heart pounding, his gaze fixed on the military convoy, where the other two soldiers were. He had one cartridge of the assault rifle and four of the MP5. He took the MP5 as his primary weapon. He could see the two soldiers, one pointing at the rooftop where John had been a moment ago, and the other pointing at the surroundings. John moved to a closer cover, taking advantage of the blind spot, and fired. The bullet hit the one who was pointing at the rooftop in the head. The other, who was pointing at the surroundings, took cover quickly.
The situation became a chess game, a dance of death between two opponents. John approached the cover, firing bursts of bullets with the MP5. The soldier, unable to do anything, had to stay in his place. In a bold move, John decided to go faster. With a quick trot, he approached the soldier's position. John's reaction was almost instantaneous.
The soldier, upon seeing John, slid to the side, pointing his weapon. John was surprised by the maneuver, but his brain, trained to react in milliseconds, ordered his body to act. In an instant, he put his forearm on his head to protect himself from the shot, the suit absorbed the shots, and John, without hesitation, shot him with the MP5, eliminating him.
Everything calmed down. The silence, a silence that felt like a scream, took over the street. John got up, his body ached. The adrenaline was still there, but the fatigue felt heavy in his body. His gaze fell on the bodies of the survivors.
The old woman. The men. The women. They had all died. And it was at that moment, that he heard a sob. A sob that came from behind a body. He approached carefully, his heart pounding. As he lifted the woman's body, he could see a child, sobbing, clinging to his mother's shirt.
John, with a lump in his throat, knelt down. "Are... are you okay?", he asked him, his voice a soft exhalation. The child, scared, clung even more to his mother. John, calmly, asked him his name, "What is your name, boy?" After a moment of silence, the child whispered: "Leo...".
"Leo," repeated John, his voice barely a whisper. "We have to go, it's not safe to be here."
But Leo, with tears in his eyes, protested. "No... I don't want to leave my mom... She told me not to move."
"I know," replied John, the voice soft but firm. "She did a great job protecting you. That's why, now you have to be brave. For her."
"But... where are we going?" the child asked, his eyes big and full of fear.
"To a safe place. But we can't wait. The monsters... are close." John replied, with a calm tone of voice.
"I don't want to leave my mom..." whispered Leo, pleading with his eyes.
"You're not leaving her," said John. "She's going to be with you. Always."
But a sound alerted him: a group of wild dogs, their eyes gleaming in the darkness, were approaching them, with blood coming out of their mouth. John went on alert. He had to get this child to safety, he couldn't let them harm him. The only option was the Umbrella soldiers' convoy.
Quickly, he picked up Leo and ran toward the nearest vehicle, a Hummer H1. The dogs ran after them, their barks echoing in the silence. The child struggled in John's arms, his little fists hitting his vest.
"Put me down! I want my mom!" yelled Leo, his voice shrill. "I don't want to go with you! I don't know you!"
John didn't answer him. He held on to Leo more tightly. The only thing he could do now was to get this child to safety.
John opened the door, put Leo in the back, and closed the door. But before he could close it, the head of one of the dogs got in the way, preventing him from closing it completely. With a cold calm, John pulled out his MP5 and shot it in the head. The dog fell, and John closed the door. He quickly sat in the driver's seat, and started the vehicle. Two more dogs jumped onto the hood, growling. John, without hesitation, shot them in the head. The dogs fell, and John drove away, leaving behind the infected and the dogs.
As he drove, John looked in the rearview mirror. He saw the child huddled, sobbing in the back seat. Suddenly, his mind, a constant calculation machine, began to process the variables. Where to go? Raccoon City was a death trap. Every street, every building, was a labyrinth of death.
And the ammunition? He touched his pocket and felt the cartridges. Scarce. Very scarce. It was the only thing keeping him alive, and what would keep Leo alive. He needed a safe place, an arsenal. The answer, simple and brutal, formed in his mind: a place where he had been before, a place where they knew about weapons. Kendo's gun shop.
And while the answer settled in his mind, he remembered Jill. He took out the phone he was carrying in his pocket. An impulse. A fleeting hope. He dialed her number. There was no answer. Nothing. The ringtone was replaced by a dead silence. A knot formed in his stomach.
Is she okay? he wondered. Jill Valentine. The S.T.A.R.S. agent. If anyone had the ability to survive this, it was her.
But the chaos, he told himself, the chaos doesn't respect experience. Or fame. Not even luck. The silence of the dead line was a chilling reminder that even the best could be swept away by this tide. Chaos had no pity or respect for experience. It was total.
John on his way to the gun shop, with a child by his side, in a Hummer H1. His goal was clear: to protect Leo, no matter the cost. And in his mind, a single idea. "Survive".