were bad enough, and he'd finally refused to accept the fact that Raccoon was overrun by the walking dead; they were just sick, that cannibal disease he'd read about, because there was no such thing as zombies except in the movies. Just like there were no real monsters, ei-ther, no giant killing bugs with claws that could walk on walls and scream like it had screamed... "Wo hay piri," he whispered, his one-time motto, this time spoken as a plea, his thoughts following in a kind of desperate litany, Don't sweat it, hang loose, be cool. And after a while, it took hold; his heart slowed to almost normal, and he started to feel like a person again, not some mindless, panicking animal. So, there were monsters in Raccoon City. It shouldn't be a surprise, not after the day he'd had; besides, they died like anything else, didn't they? He wasn't going to survive if he lost it, and he'd already been through way too much to give up now. With that, Carlos turned his back on the monster and headed down the alley, forcing himself not to look back. It was dead, and he was alive, and chances were good that there were more of them out there.
Trent might be my only way out, and now I've got... shit! Three minutes, he had three goddamn min-utes. Carlos broke into a run, up a few steps to the single door at the end of the alley and through - and found himself standing in a spacious, well-lit kitchen. A restaurant's kitchen. A quick look around; no one, and quiet except for a soft hiss from a large gas canister standing against the back wall. He took a deep breath but couldn't smell anything; maybe it was something else -
- and I wouldn't leave if it was toxic nerve gas. This has to be it, this is where he told me to go.
He walked through the kitchen, past shining metal counters and stoves, heading toward the dining area. There was a menu on one of the counters, GRILL 13 written across the front in gold script. It was unnerving, how relieved he felt; within a few hours, Trent had gone from being some creepy stranger to his best friend in the world.
I made it, and he said he could help - maybe a res-cue team is already on its way, or he arranged for me to be picked up here... or maybe there are weapons stored in the front, not as good as an evac but I'll take what I can get.
There was an opening in the wall between the kitchen and the dining room, a counter where the chefs put the orders up. Carlos could see that the small, slightly darker restaurant was empty, although he took a moment to be certain; dancing light from a still-burn-ing oil lamp wavered over the leatherette booths that lined the walls, casting jittery shadows. He stepped around the serving counter and walked into the room, absently noting a faint scent of fried food lingering in the cool air as he stared around, searching. He wasn't sure what he expected, but he def-initely didn't see it - no unmarked envelope propped up on a table, no mysterious packages, no trench-coated man waiting. There was a pay phone by the front door; Carlos walked over and picked up the re-ceiver but got nothing, just like every other phone in town. He checked his watch for what felt like the thou-sandth time in the past hour and saw that it was 1901, one minute after seven o'clock and he felt a rush of anger, of frustration that only served to increase his un-acknowledged fear. I'm alone, no one knows I'm here and no one can help me. "I'm here," he said, turning to face the empty room, his voice rising. "I made it, I'm here on time and god-damnit, where the hell are you?"
As if on cue, the telephone rang, the shrill sound making him jump, Carlos fumbled for it, his heart thumping dully in his chest, his knees suddenly weak with hope.
"Trent? Is that you?"
A brief pause, and Trent's smooth, musical voice spilled into his ear. "Hola, Mr. Oliveira! I'm so pleased to hear your voice!" "Man, not half as glad as I am to hear yours." Carlos sagged against the wall, gripping the receiver tightly.
"This is some bad shit, amigo, everyone's dead and there are things out there, like -