We managed to fit into the police van, reinforced with metal plating, before the Tyrant broke through the wall along with the door. The incredibly uncouth specimen noticed the headlights turning on, attracting the creatures like moths to a night lamp. The Tyrant didn't have to guess where or who to lunge at: exclusively at those trying to escape.
It could have caught up with us, but something unexpected happened: William Birkin, regenerating at a monstrous speed, managed to restore his heart and climb out of the rubble in record time.
These specimens — the Tyrant and G-Birkin — can be called bosses: they are stronger, more tenacious, and more terrifying than their kin. But what's surprising is that they disliked each other. The Tyrant lunged at the dangerous mutant, and William went on the counterattack. The situation was almost like friendly fire.
Damn it, our car jerked, and it was as if my entire life flashed before my eyes. Ada Wong ruined the whole show. I am not omniscient enough to observe the battle of the bosses through metal. The car's windshield was tolerable, but now I was deprived of even that pleasure. Just as I was about to bet on the victory of my friend Bill, whom I definitely don't know because of his ugliness, everything went awry.
Ugh, adjusting my glasses, I sat down on the coarse seat next to the van's rear doors. Instead of entertainment, I'll have to fall into agonizing waiting. No phone, no book. I only have the G-virus sample.
The creature's heart was still beating in my hand; it was repulsively pulsating and squirming. I wonder, if you stuff a piece of infected flesh with biomass, is it possible to get several Birkins? Unlikely; more likely, we would breed an ugly creature without self-awareness. If William divided by budding, probably the entire city would have been overrun by his clones by now. And even so, the regenerative factor…
My head sharply snapped back when the driver with little experience made a sharp U-turn. The police van is not a car designed for drifting to tear around like that. Even my thoughts about amplifying my evolution almost flew out of my head during the rocking. Only Sherry was lucky, as Claire held her tightly, which is why Claire suffered more when she hit the exit door. If I hadn't closed it, someone might have flown out onto the asphalt with the child.
— Mmm, shit, — Claire winced after the hard impact. — What do you have in your hand? — she then turned to me, to distract herself from the pain. Or did her brain start working from the shaking to ask me uncomfortable questions. There are too many options, just as there are too many answers.
— The material for creating a G-virus sample, based on… — I glanced at Sherry, deciding to soften the expression a bit. — The subject we encountered in the parking lot.
— Well, you gave him a good beating, — she complimented me. — But I thought he was going to finish you off.
My opinion: sometimes it's harmful for women to think.
— The road is blocked, — the spy clicked her tongue, turning the van around to bypass the obstacle.
We didn't drive in peace for long. Besides, I was being devoured by stares. The insatiable beauties were so captivated by my magnificence and aura of unquestioning domination that they couldn't take their eyes off me. Except, of course, the driver. The only professional in the girls' team was Ada Wong. But perhaps, the spy was so charmed that she was trying to distract herself by looking at the road?
There is no limit to my perfection, just as there is no limit to my narcissism.
— And do you get along with my brother? — the question was unexpected.
— Homo homini lupus est, — I answered in Latin, which means "man is wolf to man." This accurately describes my relationship with Chris, full of selfishness, enmity, and antagonism.
— What's that?
— Latin, — Sherry preempted me, causing me delight. Girls born to brilliant scientists surpass the accepted knowledge of twelve-year-old lolis these days. — It's like… man is a wolf to…
— A brother not by blood, but by spirit, — I preempted. — We went through combat trials, and although our views and opinions sometimes differed, it cannot be denied that under my command, Chris perfected his skills as a S.T.A.R.S. special forces operative, getting closer to his teacher's level.
Sherry frowned and looked at me suspiciously.
I maintained an imperturbable expression, restraining the urge to "finish the speech." Chris approached the level of my boots — a worthy achievement already. But perhaps such statements would harm my plans regarding Claire.
— I see, — the girl nodded thoughtfully, looking at me anew.
I recalled my adventures in another world and time, where I often courted beautiful women. That experience helped the current me better understand female psychology. Now, without irony or sarcasm, Claire presents herself as a target of moderate difficulty. On the first date, she will try to demonstrate inaccessibility, and on the second — she will open the gates.
The conversation continued.
Claire moved on to neutral topics, such as her brother's workplace. Using my knowledge of psychology, I tried to choose my words: neither praising too much nor criticizing, always balancing so as not to infringe on my own pride and to make the best possible impression. It was not easy, given the presence of other targets for conquest, which limited my methods. And talk about Chris was irritating.
Conversations not about me — were directly very unnerving…
Ten minutes flew by, and during that time, William Birkin's heart increased by ten percent — about one percent per minute, precisely, like a pocket watch. Monitoring the growth process somewhat calmed me in the presence of so many potential targets.
The beauties should not guess that they are being used, and they don't even have the right to think about it. At the moment, I was a man immersed in nostalgia for a past job. Like, I was completely not trying to win Claire's heart through her feelings for her brother.
I was a saint on the outside and, of course, rotten on the inside.
— What happened here? — Jan asked as we approached the danger zone.
There was ruin all around: scorched car carcasses scattered in the parking lots, dented streetlights hung from cracked poles, ready to fall.
Apocalypse — today.
— Let's try to find out, — I answered with a smile when we stopped.
As a gentleman, I opened the rear doors, but as a fighter, I stepped out first.
The zombies had migrated to more densely populated areas of Raccoon City, but their presence was felt here: the stench of decay hung in the air, mixed with the smells of burnt rubber and gasoline. Only mutated zombies or infected crowds could leave such destruction.
The zombies hadn't gone far — moans and growls came from afar, reminding us of the catastrophe that befell the town.
After checking the surroundings, I headed to the plant first; the others followed me. Everyone stayed together and almost simultaneously saw the huge "Umbrella" sign on the damaged gate. The sign was tilted, and the gate was damaged, as if it had been recently rammed.
A sense of decline permeated everything, especially on the way to the doors.
Glass shards crunched underfoot, and closer to the main entrance, the sound of crumbling concrete was added to these sounds. If you exclude the zombies' howling… Creaking sounds cut through the night silence, dead and pressing on the ears.
No one spoke; the echo of our steps replaced words. Everything else was just chaff, unworthy of attention. Ordinary conversations could make us miss the dangers lurking at the chemical plant. After all, a relatively secret underground complex was right beneath us; "who knows" what creatures lived there.
"Well, the chemical plant, it looks like it's been put through a meat grinder," I assessed the interior in my mind.
While everything was calm, we walked through blood-stained rooms, chemical production shops where work once bustled. The atmosphere was so sinister that no horror movie sets were needed. Broken flasks lay on the floor, mangled remains of people, rooms stained with blood — once snow-white. Turning into one of the corridors, a nauseating aroma of decomposition was added to the smell of chemicals. An incredibly concentrated odor.
— It's creepy here, — Claire broke the silence.
— There's something ahead, but I can't make it out, — I whispered, adjusting my sunglasses.
— Haven't you tried taking off your glasses? — Jan advised.
I pretended not to hear, and instead of answering, I raised my hand, gesturing that I would go on reconnaissance. A babe squad is certainly stylish and honorable, but in the dark, it's more harmful than helpful.
A couple of girls tried to follow me, but Ada kindly explained to them that my gesture meant: "stay put." I was lucky to have talented helpers. But not very lucky to have disgusting enemies. Reaching the end of the overly long corridor, I got a good look at a creature resembling a slug.
The mutant is much larger than a human; it is a yellowish-brown color with an admixture of pus and dampness. Such a creature wouldn't be added to horror movies; monsters there should scare, not cause a desire to empty one's stomach.
What a nasty creature I came across.
When the huge slug squirmed and opened its mouth, I almost took a step back. Not out of fear; I just saw a toothless creature of such size for the first time. The slug is something that sucks to death. It doesn't kill victims immediately, and it's not certain that it digests them quickly. Its stomach is the last place I want to end up. The stench was terrifying even at a distance of four steps.
But there is nothing to be done; I'll have to fight, even if I can't wash away the disgrace.
I would like to do that, but distinct footsteps were heard behind the door. Someone was running, a single person, and judging by the smell — another woman.
I frowned, recalling the concept of an "inverse world," where the male population has somehow partially died out, and women rule the world. Seriously, during a zombie apocalypse in Raccoon City, why did only women suddenly survive?
Leaping back lightning-fast, I dodged the slug's treacherous attack.
Someone kicked down a door ahead. A mercenary jumped out of it, probably from the elite U.S.S. unit. Only elite fighters can afford to partially expose their legs by wearing short shorts and fashionable boots. But, setting aside my suspicions, the upper equipment meets the standard, and the gas mask with red lenses emphasizes the fighter's affiliation with Umbrella's special squad. And this was a good fighter, with a fast reaction.
The stranger instantly aimed and sent several bullets from her submachine gun to attract the monster. When the creature bristled and turned towards her, an explosive grenade immediately flew into its mouth.
I leapt back to avoid being bathed in the internals of the ripped-apart monster. I barely made it; otherwise, I would be scrubbing for weeks. The smell from the slug was lethal; now I understand why the mercenary wears a gas mask. But I hope there is less of that stuff downstairs.
— Stay where you are! — she immediately aimed her submachine gun at me. — Who are you?! — she asked in a clear, well-trained voice, keeping me in her sights.
Slowly approaching, the mercenary created the image of a dangerous woman.
— U.S.S. operatives know me by sight, — I replied, putting my hands behind my back. — But I don't know you. Hmm, you can count the women you have on the fingers of one hand. Lord Ashford didn't favor them much, as far as I recall.
— Callsign "Lady HUNK", — she introduced herself, and sweat almost broke out on me from her words.
— Could Mr. Death be your… — I asked.
— Brother, — she answered, increasing the threat level.
In Umbrella mercenary circles, her brother causes discomfort just by existing. If I am a superhuman thanks to the virus, he exceeded the peak of human capabilities on Rockfort Island without any "miracle means." All thanks to the anomalous structure of his body.
— Albert Wesker, now it's your turn to answer questions. Are you somehow involved in the fact that my evacuation helicopter crashed in the city yesterday?
I recalled that I was involved in the helicopter incident. I was the one who somewhat… landed the helicopter on Nemesis, eliminating all the mercenaries and pilots in the process.
— He who is born to crawl cannot fly, — I frowned, as if I, a saintly man, was being accused of lying. — That is the answer to your question. Now that we're finished, allow me to thank you for your help and say goodbye. I need to go to NEST-1 with my team. I'm afraid we can't…
— We're going the same way, — Lady HUNK interrupted me. — What do you have in your hand?
She aimed the submachine gun at the G-virus sample.
— An interesting question, — I drew out thoughtfully, instantly moving to her and grabbing her throat. I then pinned her to the wall. — But aren't there too many questions for one meeting? Fine, I'll answer. At this moment, I hold your life in my hand.
I squeezed her throat tighter to emphasize the seriousness of my intentions.
— Boundaries… understood, — she said hoarsely, quickly orienting herself and pressing the pistol to my head.
— Boundaries… accepted, — I mockingly rephrased, setting her down and heading toward the team.
The mercenary followed me. If she is even remotely comparable to Mr. Death, then I am indeed lucky with the formation of my "Wesker" combat squad. Although, some might think it's a squad of my mistresses…"