Apocalypse - Keith R. A. DeCandido [45]
Predictably, Guthrie took a shot at Nemesis as soon as he came into sight.
Just as predictably, it had no appreciable effect on Nemesis.
Oh, there was an effect—but Cain only knew that because of what the other monitors in front of him were displaying.
Verifying the information on the monitors, Johanssen said, “Point-zero-one percent damage. Regenerating at a cellular level.”
Cain nodded. Just as Isaacs had said, Nemesis’s metabolism was sufficiently supercharged that he could regenerate tissue to heal any wound.
Johanssen looked up at Cain. “Secondary directive established. Nemesis will now target anyone recognized as S.T.A.R.S.” Johanssen hesitated. “Sir, that means he won’t target the other two people in the gun shop—unless they physically threaten him.”
“That’s all right, son,” Cain said with a small smile. “I’d say there’s a good chance of the latter, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Even as those two words came out of Johanssen’s mouth, the monitor that fed into the Umbrella-made RCPD traffic camera showed Nemesis raising the rail gun.
What a sight it was.
Although, strictly speaking, the body of Nemesis originally had belonged to a jackass troublemaker named Matthew Addison, said body was now barely recognizable as his.
Still, for whatever reason, Addison’s DNA was particularly susceptible to the modifications required for the Nemesis Program. Several dozen test subjects—all prisoners from the Raccoon City Penitentiary who had volunteered on the promise of parole if they lived (that last qualifier was left out of the original offer, of course)—had had fatal reactions to the attempted modifications.
But when Addison had been attacked by one of the lickers in the Hive, he’d responded differently than expected. The man was as good as dead anyhow, so Cain saw no good reason not to put him in the Nemesis Program and see what could be done.
As an added bonus, they had learned a great deal about the group that Addison belonged to—a misbegotten collection of wealthy liberals, bitter law-enforcement personnel, and other detritus of society who were trying to bring Umbrella down. Cain had already taken steps to make sure that Aaron Vricella and the rest of Addison’s cronies were taken care of.
Meanwhile, Addison was serving to further the cause of the very corporation he was trying so misguidedly to put out of business. If Nemesis worked—and it was looking more and more like it did—then they had a super-soldier that would, Cain knew, be of great interest to his former fellows in the armed forces.
Nemesis stood eight feet tall, with muscles far larger than those of the greatest bodybuilder. Assorted wires and pipes provided electronic and cybernetic enhancement to his already considerable strength and stamina, as well as four of his five senses (the exception being taste, which they had actually deadened, since an acute sense of taste would be an impediment to field work), and tubes fed a variety of stimulants into his bloodstream.
In one redwood-sized arm, he held a rail gun like it weighed nothing. In the other, he held the specially modified rocket launcher that few could lift even two-handed.
Now he fired that rocket launcher, even as he continued to barrage the roof of the building with the rail gun.
Moments later, the roof, the building, and Michael Guthrie all disintegrated in a fiery conflagration that did Timothy Cain’s heart proud.
Nemesis then turned toward the gun shop.
Twenty
After that fine-lookin’ crazy-ass white bitch in the blue tube top shot Rashonda, L.J. had got his ass the hell out of the RCPD. It was safer on the street.
Though not by a whole lot, that was for goddamn sure.
The bitch had the right idea, though. L.J. might have been born and raised in Raccoon, but enough was fuckin’ enough. No way he was keepin’ his narrow ass in this town. He wanted zombies, he’d rent a fuckin’ movie. Nah, dog, L.J.