The trio skirted the outer perimeter of an abandoned warehouse. The Voltage Conversion Electrical Station, their objective and potential tomb, loomed in the distance, a somber giant through the haze of the fires. Jill's tactical professionalism was competing with the urgent need to uncover the truth behind John's beautiful and dangerous "work friend." The march was not a desperate sprint, but a cautious progression. They had to cover at least twenty infested blocks, a grim dance of threat elimination.
The infected streamed out of the alleys like famished shadows. The trio's work was a choreography of brutal efficiency.
A zombie dragged itself from an overturned car, a low growl in its throat. John, without breaking stride, raised his suppressed P30L. The shot was a dry, precise "pfut" at the base of the skull, the body collapsing before Jill could even raise her Beretta.
Two more infected, who turned at the muffled sound, were met with the blade. Ada Wong, unfazed by the effort or the blood that would stain her silk, drew a pair of butterfly knives from her hidden sheaths. The blades danced with blinding speed: a slash across the throat of the first, a quick pivot and an upward stab into the sternum of the second. It was a clean massacre, with no wasted ammunition.
—Impressive—Jill murmured, her police instinct disapproving of the excessive violence, but her S.T.A.R.S. mind registering the efficiency—. But if you're going to do that in your dress, I suggest an apron.
Ada holstered the knives with a metallic click, wiping a small red smear with her thumb.
—Red dyes are stubborn—Ada replied—. It only enhances the look.
—Whatever works for you, I guess—Jill said, shaking her head skeptically as they continued down a main street.
It was then that the chaos abruptly paused. A sound, more powerful than any roar, cut the air. A deep, thunderous BRRRRRR that vibrated the shattered glass and the very soul.
The three took cover beneath the debris of a collapsed overpass. John raised his head and looked up at the contaminated sky, his eyes clinically registering every detail.
A heavy, military-designed helicopter with no visible insignia was flying low over the city. But it wasn't carrying civilians. It was carrying cargo. Hanging from a thick cable, it transported a metal armored container, the size of a small car and suspiciously heavy-looking. The helicopter was undoubtedly heading toward the heart of the city.
—What the hell is that?—Jill asked, her initial relief at the military firepower being replaced by doubt
—A heavy helicopter, flying low, with no markings—John said, his voice low and focused. He looked at Ada—. Are they searching for civilians? Or why isn't it on the perimeter helping to evacuate? A vehicle of that caliber is too expensive a target for this kind of work.
—No. That's not the mission.—Ada said, her expression for the first time tinged with genuine concern. She adjusted a lock of hair, thinking—. If they were looking for civilians, they'd use light units and stick to the perimeter. That armor and that route indicate a very high priority. It's not canned food. Whoever controls it wants that delivered or deployed, and they don't want anyone to identify it or anyone to escape.
—A priority delivery—John murmured, his gaze still fixed on the point where the sound of the helicopter had faded—. Which means they're about to make things worse. Do you have an idea of the faction? Umbrella mercenaries or something else?
Ada shook her head, a crack of professional frustration in her usually composed voice.
—The common factor is secrecy. If someone is using those kinds of resources in hot territory and without identification, the intention is to eliminate any potential witnesses. It's a faction operating in the shadows, and they don't want to leave tracks.
—We are potential witnesses—Jill pointed out, her heart racing at the obvious truth. Her Beretta suddenly felt small—. This isn't a rescue operation; it's a weapon deployment.
John nodded, his face turning grim.
The trio forced themselves to continue advancing down a partially intact avenue. The conversation had ended, leaving a sticky, silent layer of tension over the surrounding chaos.
Suddenly, a totally wrecked yellow school bus, packed with infected inside, roared out of control from a side street. No one was at the wheel; the mass of bodies and the driver's dead foot on the accelerator kept it moving.
—Left!—John ordered, pushing Jill and Ada with calculated force. The bus passed by mere inches, the broken glass of the windshield full of distorted faces, the metal chassis howling as it slid past.
The trio got up, shaking off the dust. Jill brought a hand to her chest, where her heartbeat still resonated against her ribcage.
—Damn it, John. That was close.—Jill said, her voice a tense thread. She gave him a quick look, a nod that was the highest form of gratitude a S.T.A.R.S. agent could give in the field—. Thank you.
Ada, for her part, brushed the dirt off her red suit, her composure returning with unnerving speed. She looked at John, checked him up and down, and gave him a calculated, yet authentic, smile of appreciation.
—If I wanted a ride, all you had to do was ask, John.—Ada murmured, her voice a low purr full of mischief—. Though this driver was notably rude. Good reflexes, by the way.
John stood up with a fluid motion that concealed the sharp pain in his battered side. He dusted off his shoulder with disinterest, his gaze fixed on the horizon.
—Are you both alright?—John said, his voice barely a whisper, his tone neutral, but the question was a command.
Jill nodded, a micro-expression of relief crossing her face.
—I am ok.
—Not a scratch, John—Ada replied, with a slightly mocking tone.
—Looks like the bus missed its stop—John said, allowing himself his own little irony, as an almost imperceptible grimace curved his mouth, an expression of grim relief that was the closest thing to a joke he would permit—. Now, back to business.
Ada chuckled, a dry, contained sound. The tension broke, replaced by renewed concentration. They resumed their march, returning to their pattern of cautious progression.
A few yards away, a group of four men were looting an electronics store, ignoring the imminent danger. One struggled to pull a heavy television from the store as the zombies approached. A shout of panic, and the group dropped the merchandise, fleeing before three infected reached them and fell upon one of them.
—Ah, the irony—Ada commented with a dry smile, as the sound of tearing flesh echoed behind them—. A zombie apocalypse and they're still worried about entertainment. I'd opt for canned food, but I suppose everyone has their priorities.
Jill couldn't help a brief, dry snort of laughter at Ada's cynicism. The small moment of humanity, the absurd reality of the chaos, momentarily relieved the tension.
—The sound of the television breaking would be worth it for the symbolism alone.—Jill adjusted her Beretta on her hip as they dodged an overturned shopping cart. She pointed to the structure of the Electrical Station that now dominated the horizon—. Two more blocks, if my mental map is correct.
—I'm inclined to think that man needed more bullets than TV channels.—Ada retorted, her tone one of calculated disapproval, but with a spark of amusement. She looked toward the Electrical Station—. Two blocks? Good. It's time to stop enjoying everyone else's spectacle and focus on our own.
Jill absorbed the sarcasm, but her mind had already moved from the looting to the thorny issue of the woman walking beside her. Work friends. What did that mean in John's world? As he advanced, the shadowy, efficient figure silently eliminating one threat after another with his knife, Jill couldn't help but feel a pang of annoyance, not from romantic jealousy, but from the opaque and dangerous familiarity between the two of them. There was no way to fully trust Ada if she didn't understand the nature of her debt or agreement with John.
—So, John—Jill said, deciding to inject herself into the silent duel—. What's the real story with the lady in red? She told me you're "work friends." Does that mean you rented her a car, or shared a hotel room in Monaco? I need a third point of view.
John, who had just shot two more approaching infected, holstered his weapon and sighed, the clearest sign of his annoyance at the useless chatter.
—It means we end up on opposite ends of the spectrum from time to time—John said, his voice a growl—. She is not my responsibility. She is not my target. And she is not my friend.
Ada laughed, her laugh like wind chimes. —Oh, John, always so sweet! Don't believe him, Jill. We had a very interesting dinner in that hotel you mentioned. The steak was a little raw, and the ambiance was explosive.
Jill felt a glimpse of connection with the assassin. —I doubt it. Her concept of "explosive" and mine probably differ.
The light moment ended as quickly as it began. The street opened into a small, gloomy square. Turning the corner, the air became dense. It seemed to be the alley where madness had found its last breath.
The smell of dampness and urine mixed with the sweet, illegal aroma of burning cannabis. In the deepest shadows, the flickers of lighters revealed silhouettes devoted to hedonistic despair: two couples fornicated with an apathetic frenzy, ignoring the surrounding apocalypse, as if coitus were the last act of defiance before oblivion.
A little further on, a solitary woman injected something into her arm, her glazed eyes reflecting the flame of her own internal burning. Everyone moved in a dance of self-destruction, where life had been reduced to the search for the most basic pleasure, ignoring the zombies crawling down the main street.
Jill felt a lurch in her stomach and instantly averted her gaze.
—My God...—Jill murmured, her face contorted with disgust. She quickly looked away, focusing on the brick wall, as if seeing the cement were preferable to the human collapse.
Ada, however, paused. Her eyes scanned the scene with clinical coldness, no trace of morality, only an assessment of the desperation.
—A surprising, if unhygienic, way to shoot their last bolts, don't you think, John?—Ada commented, her voice low and dispassionate, as if she were talking about a failed lab experiment. Then she let out a dry, humorless laugh—. Humanity always opts for self-destruction, even without the aid of the T-Virus.
—Don't look, Jill—John said, his voice flat, not giving the scene a fraction of a second of his attention. To him, they were background noise, non-lethal threats at that moment.
—I already looked—Jill replied, shaking her head and snapping back to reality—. And now I'd like to forget. Let's keep moving.
It was in that epicenter of collapsed morality that they encountered a middle-aged man, dirty and with a face contorted by madness, trembling with an old, rusty drum revolver. Seeing Jill and Ada, a look of depravity lit up his eyes. The man scanned them up and down with a slow, lascivious gaze, lingering on Ada's thighs and Jill's cleavage, a disgusting gesture of possession that made both of them feel deeply violated.
—Well, well! Looks like God hasn't abandoned me after all, huh?—he shouted, his voice a hoarse lament, raising the revolver—. What luck I have! Two beauties right before the end of the world! Come here, sweethearts!
The man aimed at John, with an arrogance inflated by desperation.
—You, big guy. Leave the girls and go on your way. If you don't make a move, I'll let you live. Don't interfere with my fun.
Jill felt a shiver of icy rage layered over her disgust.
—He's the kind of garbage you hope the zombies get rid of first—Jill murmured, gripping her Beretta, but knowing that a shot from her could complicate things with an armed civilian, no matter how depraved he was.
Ada, for her part, showed no amusement. Her face froze into a mask of total revulsion.
—Pathetic and predictable. He's a waste of air—Ada hissed, her tone devoid of sarcasm, only contempt for human weakness.
John showed no emotion. His cold, expressionless face did not register the threat of the revolver pointed at his forehead or the man's perverse desire. He said nothing, not even a warning. There was no time for the games of the desperate. There was a greater threat.
He simply moved.
The flash of his hand was faster than comprehension. His P30L, came out of the holster, and the crack sound of the shot cut through the night. The man collapsed instantly, the bullet entering directly through the center of his forehead. The people in the alley continued their business, ignoring the death of someone just yards away; they seemed to have entered a mode of self-destructive madness.
Upon witnessing John's action, Ada couldn't help but think: No doubt. No negotiation. No warnings. John's efficiency was so brutal it bordered on admiration. A seed of fascination began to take root. Any other man, whether a former government agent or a common operative, would have tried diplomacy, or maybe a non-lethal wound. They would have wasted valuable seconds on morality. But not John. He had assessed the threat—not the physical one, but the logistical one—and erased it without blinking. The man's intention to abuse them was a distraction, an unnecessary variable in the survival equation. A man of pure action, who understands the price of time in a war zone. It was a way of dealing with chaos that Ada deeply respected.
Ada looked at the body with icy indifference. —Good. We don't have to dodge him anymore.
Jill looked at the man's body on the ground with the hole in his head. A part of her, the trained police officer, felt a pang of discomfort at the summary execution. But the other part, the survivor hardened by the hell walking beside the man who had saved her, only felt a deep disgust for what the survivor had planned. She clenched her jaw and forced herself to ignore the body. There was nothing left to do but keep walking.
John gave them no time for reflection. His voice cut the silence like a whip, without raising its tone, but charged with undeniable urgency.
—We move. Now.
The incident had frozen any further dialogue. Jill and Ada's minds, though for different reasons, were filled with silence. Jill, disturbed by the scene in the alley and John's lethal speed, walked absorbed in her thoughts, her gaze fixed on the assassin's broad back, not daring to look back. Ada, in contrast, processed the information, the logic behind John's action, the pure efficiency she admired. John had increased the pace, urging them forward with his silent presence. The Electrical Station loomed, large and somber, getting closer. They were only three or four blocks away.
The sound that stopped them was not a rattle, nor a roar, but a brutal explosion.
The side wall of a half-collapsed warehouse, right in front of them, exploded.
Brick, mortar, and concrete flew in a cloud of dust that filled the street. The figure that emerged had not taken shortcuts, nor had it looked for the shortest path: it had run in a straight line through everything in its way, crushing cars and zombies alike.
It was Nemesis, and he was even more enraged. His biomass mask seemed to palpitate with rage.
The creature emitted its recognizable shriek, a guttural and modulated cry, aimed like a sonic missile.
—S.T.A.R.S.! J O H N!
Nemesis had closed the distance and found the trail. The instant its bio-weapon eyes fell upon Jill and John, the creature dropped its arm. The weight of the armored modification was immense, but the monster held it with ease: its right arm was now fused with a heavy Gatling gun, and its left shoulder held the nozzle of a flamethrower.
John reacted before the creature could even aim properly. His eyes opened in a fraction of cold panic at the sight of the volume of fire. Nemesis's power was already immense; with the Gatling, it was an unstoppable destructive force.
—Get down!—John yelled.
It was the fastest move he had made in days. John lunged to the side, desperately pushing Jill and Ada. Both fell heavily to the ground, covered in dust.
Where their heads had been a second before, the air was torn.
The first burst from the Gatling was a deafening thunder. The high-caliber bullets struck the street with the fury of a million hammers, shattering the asphalt and pulverizing the wall behind them. The sound was a continuous roar, a saw cutting flesh and brick that made the ground vibrate. Shards of hot metal and fragments of concrete rained down on them. The volume of fire was insane, covering every possible escape route.
—Damn it!—John muttered, his voice a growl. He crawled behind an overturned car, as bullets perforated the sheet metal as if it were tissue paper.
—That thing is new!—Jill screamed, her Beretta useless against that level of armor and firepower.
—We can't stop it. It's too much!—Ada exclaimed, the glamour disappearing under fear.
The flamethrower ignited, covering the area with a jet of orange fire. The overturned car became a red-hot metal trap. They had to get out of cover.
Nemesis advanced, the Gatling firing incessantly. The air was filled with a continuous din, a storm of metal that turned the asphalt into dust.
—We can't stay here, it's going to tear us apart!—Jill shouted, the roar of the weapon drowning out her voice.
—Separate! Distraction fire to the optics!—John ordered, his voice a bark of urgency. He knew they couldn't hurt it, but they could direct it—. Ada, left flank, find an angle! Jill, with me, right! Move!
John was the first to move. He came out from the cover of the overturned car, not to flee, but to attack. His MP5 spit fire in three-shot bursts, aimed directly at the creature's single glowing eye. The 9mm bullets bounced off the hardened biomass with useless sparks, but achieved their goal: Nemesis focused on him.
The Gatling whirred, a steel monster pointing at John.
—Now!—John yelled.
Taking advantage of the distraction, Jill rolled towards a concrete pillar, her Beretta in hand. She fired half a dozen times at the creature's torso, a gesture more of defiance than of tactics. The projectiles didn't even scratch the surface.
Ada, however, was a red phantom. She moved with inhuman fluidity, sliding through the debris to the left. Her pistol appeared in her hand. She did not aim at the armor, but at the exposed joints of the flamethrower arm. She fired twice, with surgical precision.
A flash of blue sparks erupted from the shoulder joint. Nemesis's flamethrower arm twitched and fell momentarily, inert.
They had briefly stopped him!
—Good shot!—John growled, taking advantage of the creature's second of hesitation to reload his MP5.
But the victory lasted less than a second. Nemesis let out a roar of fury, not pain. The brute force of biotechnology overcame the damage. The flamethrower arm readjusted with a mechanical click.
Ignoring Ada for an instant, the creature fixed its single glowing eye on John, the perceived leader. The rage seemed to override its artillery programming. Instead of firing the Gatling, it lowered the weapons and charged.
It was a move of terrifying speed for something its size. The ground trembled under its footsteps. Nemesis closed the distance in an instant, its left fist, the size of an engine block, launched in a brutal arc aimed at John's head.
John, who was finishing inserting the magazine, barely had time to react. There was no room for a tactical move, only pure instinct. He threw himself backward, a desperate spin that made him lose his balance. The punch passed inches from his face, the wind from the blow was so powerful it stung his cheek. The fist impacted the concrete column behind him, pulverizing it and sending a shower of debris over his back.
John fell heavily, rolling to cover, his heart pounding in his throat. A second slower, a less honed reflex, and his head would have been disintegrated. The terrifying brute force was worse than bullets.
The retaliation was instant and terrifying. Having missed the strike against John, Nemesis twisted its torso, its tactical programming resuming. It now focused on the threat that had damaged it: Ada.
The flamethrower nozzle ignited. A torrent of liquid fire swept Ada's position. The woman lunged backward, rolling over her shoulder as the taxi she had covered behind instantly became a funeral pyre. She landed gracefully, but her cover was gone.
—Damn it, it's unstoppable!—Ada hissed, her face stained with soot, her composure broken by a rare display of frustration.
The combined force of the three had only managed to irritate it, nothing more. Nemesis's artillery was simply too much. The monster turned its attention back to John, who was getting up, the one who moved the most, the one who gave the orders. The Gatling roared again, forcing John to retreat behind the smoking remains of the car.
They were separated, outgunned, and the creature showed no signs of tiredness.
Jill, desperately trying to cover John, who was moving with difficulty, attempted a flank, but Nemesis saw her. It whirled the Gatling with inhuman precision, locking her in a cone of bullets. Jill dove to the ground behind a pile of debris. The burst covered her in dust and shrapnel.
Nemesis, pitilessly, stopped firing the Gatling and raised the arm with the flamethrower. The nozzle tilted, ready to burn her alive. Jill closed her eyes, feeling the imminent heat.
Before John could do anything—before Nemesis's finger could squeeze the flamethrower's trigger—the world exploded once more.
The sound was not the Gatling. It was the thunderous bang of a rocket launcher approaching at terminal velocity.
The projectile impacted Nemesis on the back of its armor, right in the blind spot. The explosion was a devastating fireball that consumed the air. The monster was thrown through the air with brutal force, its heavy figure crashing against the concrete wall of an abandoned building, leaving a smoking crater and a deafening silence.
All three, stunned, raised their heads and looked toward the rooftop from where the shot had come.
There, with the rocket launcher still smoking in his hand, a brown-skinned man in military clothing and a strong South American accent yelled over the chaos:
—Hey, ladies and you, the guy in the expensive suit! If you don't want to die, move!
The man was none other than Carlos Oliveira.