Short RE

The dying summer sun left the city hot and sticky. Oppressive, stagnant air pushed into every open window or cracked door. It would have destroyed the effort of any ice cold drink, if any had been available. It was the sort of evening that should have been filled with the low hum of fans and industrial conditioners, blasting cold air on wary 6 pm shoppers fresh off work. Instead, automatic street lamps illuminated empty sidewalks and piled wet garbage. Few lights flickered on and off inside empty stores and quiet apartments. Many more were dark. Most of the bulbs were well burnt out by now. There was no traffic. Cars instead were parked over curbs, or stalled in the middle of the road. Some of them were scorched by fire, or splashed with thick red rust. If you were lucky, you couldn’t see inside. At the end of the block, in front of a lone diner, a group of crows began to pick at a piece of road kill.

This was all that was left of downtown Raccoon City. Once a wonderful little city, full of life and opportunity. It boasted a rail line, beautiful parks and classical brick row homes. All against a backdrop of snow peaked mountains and a lush forest. The morning commute couldn’t have been more ideal. All of the hustle and bustle of the city, and on the weekend one could escape to a post card wonder. Now it was left caked in dust and grime. From Arklay forest, not a single bird sang. In the city most of the storefronts were empty or gone. Glass became a deadly harbinger of pain or a shambling approach. It was scattered liberally from crunched cars and broken windows. This was the home stretch. The winding, convoluted alleys would eventually open to highway, and blinding freedom for what residents were left, and how few there were. Getting this far was like hitting the wall for any runner. It seemed impossible, with layers of brick imposing strict and dangerous paths. There were so many openings for hands to reach, and in the distance, dogs. It would be enough to demoralize anyone, especially if you were seeing it for the second time.

This was how Amy found herself. The crunch of glass underfoot made her wince as she came onto Main Street, her breath already ragged. Behind her was the RPD, her only real landmark. She knew it was straddling uptown and downtown. Warren St. was supposed to be her way out to the Raccoon main line, her last chance after she’d found the Central Line in complete chaos. Looking down the road, the idea of simplicity faded. Deep shadows spilled out of their corners and pooled onto the cement, holding their contents secret. It was going to be a full sprint or an extra day of stealth. She felt she had neither in her. Her right arm was almost completely unusable, the sloppy bandages starting to bleed through. It hurt to move, and she knew, vaguely, the effects of mass skin loss. The antibiotics weren’t going to be enough, the pain pills were going to be too much.

Looking back, she saw only failure. The RPD gates were crushed inwards. The front doors were wide open, shredded boards laying in tatters around the entrance. The elaborate marble floor was scuffed, and while the light was bright and inviting, something about it felt like a trap. That wide open lobby could only lead to pain. For the first time she wanted someone there. She wanted to join the long dead chorus of those who had screamed for help. She wanted to cry the night away and pretend that day might hold something better, and felt herself swaying.
She dug into her pocket, producing the two thin bottles and weighed them carefully in her palm. The antibiotic’s label cheerfully reminded her to take with food and water, while the other warned not to operate heavy machinery or drive. Amy drooped back against an abandoned SUV shortly after knocking to make sure it was, in fact, abandoned. She popped the bottles, one antibiotic on her tongue and crunching the pain pill in half before stuffing both back into her pocket. She swallowed with an imaginary swig of water that she didn’t have, and felt the pills scrape painfully all the way down.

She couldn’t count how many she passed when she started her sprint, but they must have been 12 at least. They came out of the shadows, sloppily lunging into the street or pulling themselves over asphalt. At least one slipped a hand around her ankle, and quickly lost most of its skin in mid grasp. She barely had time to gag at the smell before she was vaulting over the hood of a car, her next leap taking her to the small concrete stand for a lamp post. She gripped with her left hand and swung forward, momentum dropping her midway down Warren. Raccoon City Press stood to her right, papers still stacked in front and a column of smoke rising from within. Something bulbous crossed the window above, a thick leg extending itself to the window sill. It only took a split second for her to recognize it, something inside out and pulsing with talons that would put a raptor to shame.

Sightless, she remembered him saying. If there was one thing she could be thankful for, it was his pride in their work. It could smell her, but it would have to rely on a blind lunge. She pushed herself into the nearest garbage can, the metal lid clattering to the ground as it went down. The shadow was above and then over, but nothing was more satisfying than the collision of skull and metal as it lunged bodily inside the large can. The end was dented outwards, and its feet clawed the ground in desperation for purchase.
Amy was already gone. She didn’t want to stay around. She could already imagine the thin metal shredding under claw and tongue.