Perhaps dying is too strong a word, considering…

Nicholai had planned to give up if he wasn't able to find the platoon leader after a few minutes, but the longer he searched, the more determined he became.

He found himself getting angry, too – how dare Mikhail run from his just punishment? Who did he think he was, wasting Nicholai's precious time? To frustrate him even further, Mikhail had covered quite a distance and was leading him back into town; another block or so and he'd be at the RPD building again. Nicholai opened another door, scanned another room, sighed. Mikhail had to know that he was being followed – or he just didn't have the good sense to lay down and die. Either way, it wouldn't, couldn't be long now. Nicholai walked through a small, orderly office, ap-parently attached to a parking garage, the erratic blood trail shining purple on the blue linoleum by the caged bare bulbs overhead. The splatters seemed to be thin-ning; either Mikhail was bleeding out – unlikely, it seemed – or he had found time to staunch his wound. Nicholai gritted his teeth, reassuring himself, He'll be weak, slowing down, perhaps looking for a place to rest. I saw the hit, he can't go on much longer.

He stepped out into the dark, cavernous garage, the cold air thick with the smells of gasoline and grease and something else. He stopped, breathed deeply. A weapon had been fired recently, he was sure of it. He moved quickly and silently across the cement, edging around a white van that blocked one of the rows of cars, and saw what appeared to be a dog sprawled in a puddle of blood, its strange body curled in a fetal po-sition. He hurried toward it, disgusted and thrilled at once. They'd warned him about the dogs, how quickly they became infected, and he knew that research had been conducted on their viability as weapons at the Spencer estate…… and they were deemed too dangerous when they turned on their handlers. Untrainable, and their decay rate higher than the other organics.

Truly, the half-skinned animal at his feet looked and smelled like a piece of raw meat that had sat in the sun for too long. Accustomed as he was to death, Nicholai still felt his gorge rise at the stench, but he continued to study the creature, certain that the canine had been the target of recent gunplay. Sure enough. Two entry wounds below the torn flap of its left ear… but not from an M16, the holes were much too big. Nicholai backed away, frowning. Some-one besides Mikhail Victor had come through the garage in the last half hour, and probably not a

U.B.C.S. soldier, unless they'd brought their own weapon, probably a handgun… Nicholai heard something. His head snapped up, his attention on the exit door, ahead at two o'clock. A soft sliding sound, an infected human brushing against the door, perhaps – or perhaps a wounded man, slumped and dying against the exit, too exhausted to press on. Nicholai moved toward the door, hopeful and grinned at the sound of Mikhail's voice, strained and weak, floating past the aging metal.

"No… get away!"

Nicholai eagerly pushed the door open, wiping the smile off his face as he assessed the situation. A vast wrecking yard, gated, vehicles piled in a useless barri-cade, two more dead dogs limp on the cold ground. Mikhail lay next to the garage door, partially propped against the wall and trying desperately to lift his rifle. His pale face was beaded with sweat and his hands shook wildly. Five meters away, half of a person was pulling it-self toward the downed man on shredded fingertips, its rot-sexless face corrupted into a leering perma-grin. Its progress was achingly slow but constant; it seemed that having no lower body – certainly not a complete diges-tive system – didn't stop the carrier from wanting to eat.

Do I play the hero, save my leader from being gnawed to death? Or do I enjoy the show? "Nicholai, help me, please…," Mikhail rasped, rolling his head to look up at him, and Nicholai found he couldn't resist. The idea that Mikhail would be grateful to him for saving his life seemed extraordinar-ily… funny, for lack of a better term. "Hang on, Mikhail," Nicholai said forcefully. "I'll take care of it!"

He dashed forward and jumped, slamming his boot heel into the carrier's skull, grimacing as a large section of its matted scalp sloughed wetly away from the bone. He brought his heel down again, and a third time, and the once-human died in a thick, splintering crunch, its arms spasming, its fleshless fingertips dancing briefly on the asphalt. Nicholai turned, hurrying back to kneel next to Mikhail. "What happened?" he asked, voice heavy with con-cern as he gazed down at Mikhail's bloody stomach.

"Did one of them get you?"

Mikhail shook his head, closing his eyes as if too ex-hausted to keep them open. "Somebody shot me." "Who? Why?" Nicholai did his best to sound shocked. "I don't know who, or why. I thought someone was following me, too, but – maybe they just thought I was one of them. A zombie." Actually, that's not so far from the truth… Nicholai had to stifle another grin; he deserved an award for his performance. "I saw… at least a few men got away," Mikhail whispered. "If we can get to the evac site, call in the transport…"

The St. Michael Clock Tower was the alleged evacu-ation site, where the soldiers were supposed to take the civilian survivors. Nicholai knew the truth – that a re-connaissance team would put down first disguised as emergency medical, and no other helicopters would show unless Umbrella gave the word. Since the squad leaders were probably all dead, Nicholai had to wonder if any of the soldiers even knew about the "evacuation," though he supposed it wasn't important. It wouldn't af-fect his plans either way. He found that he wasn't enjoying this game as much as he'd thought he would. Mikhail was too pathetically trusting, it was as much of a challenge as hunting a friendly dog. It was almost shameful to watch, too, the way he surrendered to his pain… "I don't think you're in any shape to travel," Nicholai said coolly.

"It's not that bad. Hurts like hell, and I've lost some blood, but if I can just catch my breath, rest for a few minutes…" "No, it looks very bad," Nicholai said. "Mortal. In fact, I think…"

Creeaak. Nicholai shut up as the door to the garage opened next to them, a slow and even motion, and one of the

U.B.C.S. soldiers stepped out, his eyes lighting up when he saw them, his assault rifle lowering, but only slightly.

"Sirs! Corporal Carlos Oliveira, A squad, Platoon Delta. I'm… shit, it's good to see you guys."

Nicholai nodded briskly, annoyed beyond measure as Carlos crouched next to them, checking Mikhail's wound, asking stupid questions. He was ninety-nine percent sure he could kill both of them before they real-ized what was happening, but even one percent was too great a risk considering what was at stake. He would have to wait… but perhaps he could find a way to use these new circumstances to his advantage. And if not… well, people turned their backs on their friends all the time, didn't they? And neither of them had reason to believe Nicholai was anything but. What was the saying, about how an obstacle was only a disguised opportunity? Things were going to be fine.