Apocalypse - Keith R. A. DeCandido [23]
Jill noticed that, as the thug went down, his headset had fallen off. She reached down to pick it up and was about to give it to the thug, who was shaking his head in an attempt to clear it, when she heard voices over the earpiece.
A young voice: “Sir?”
The next voice spoke with a German accent: “It’s here. It’s reached the gate.”
A third voice, sounding officious: “All right, then. We don’t have a choice. We have to keep it contained.”
German: “Close them.”
Young guy: “Sir?”
German: “Seal the gates.”
Young guy: “But our men are still out there!”
German: “Just do it.”
Jill looked up at the wall. The gate started to swing shut.
“Shit, this hurts.”
Turning around, Jill saw that no one had bothered to bind Peyton’s wound. In fact, the doc was suddenly nowhere to be found.
That just figured.
There was an abandoned first-aid kit, which Jill snagged. She quickly bound Peyton’s wound. That the old man had even been able to bite through Peyton’s pants and break the skin was pretty impressive.
As she tied off the bandage, Jill said, “Dammit, Peyton, you should’ve got out while you had the chance.”
“These are our people, Jill.”
Jill snorted and shook her head. Loyal to the end. Him and Quinn both. They’d probably both get posthumous medals.
Fat lotta good it would do them.
“Out of my way! I’m a celebrity, goddammit!”
Amazingly enough, this worked, as a sea of panicky Raccoon City citizens actually parted to let a perky-looking woman through. Jill recognized her as a reporter from one of the TV stations, but she couldn’t remember which one. Tammy Morehead? Theresa Morehouse? Something like that.
Then a voice boomed out overhead. Jill looked up to see one of the Umbrella goons standing on the wall holding a megaphone.
“This is a biohazard quarantine area.”
The voice belonged to the German guy.
“What’s going on here?” the reporter lady screamed up at the wall.
Ignoring her—or maybe he couldn’t hear her—the German repeated his words: “This is a biohazard quarantine area. Due to risk of infection, you cannot be allowed to leave the city.”
“What are you talking about?” the reporter demanded.
Jill almost screamed that he couldn’t hear her, but decided she wasn’t worth the effort.
“All appropriate measures are being taken. The situation is under control. Please return to your homes.”
If it wasn’t so colossally stupid, Jill would have laughed. She almost did anyhow, as laughter was the only alternative to eating her gun.
Return to their homes. Right. Raccoon City was a cemetery, with new graves being dug every second. By closing that gate, this German fuckhead had just sentenced them all to death.
What was worse, Jill suspected that the German knew it. And didn’t care.
Typical Umbrella.
The citizenry was, understandably, a bit put off by these instructions.
“Return to our homes?”
“Are you insane?”
“What homes?”
“Let us through!”
The people started surging forward. The thugs and cops were having an increasingly harder time subduing them, as desperation lent strength to their actions.
Or maybe the predicament was weakening the thugs and cops as well, Jill thought. After all, they were just as trapped as the rest of them.
“This is a biohazard quarantine area. Please return to your homes.”
Jill wondered if the German had a pull-string in the back that let him just repeat that phrase over and over.
She looked at Peyton, still trying to hold people back and keep them calm, even with his wounded leg.
She thought about Quinn, staying behind at his desk.
“These are our people, Jill.”
“My shift ain’t over yet.”
Fuck.
She yelled up at the wall, “There are injured people here! They need medical attention!”
In response, the German put down his megaphone and raised an automatic weapon—an MP5K, from the look of it.
He fired a dozen rounds into the air.
All noise and movement stopped.
Raising the megaphone again, the German said, “You have fifteen seconds to turn around and return to the city.”
Six more thugs took up positions on the wall around the German.