Wu Fan's fingers had just rested on Amy's waist when the door was pushed open.
Amy sprang up as if electrified, a blush flashing across her face as she hurriedly adjusted her collar.
Wu Fan's hand hung in mid-air; he gave two dry coughs and slowly pulled it back, his expression shifting from flustered to composed in less than a second.
"I was helping Amy check her back..."
He said with a straight face, "There was a spider behind her just now."
Edwin didn't listen to him at all.
Candice didn't listen either.
Abraham listened even less.
The three of them filed in; Candice was clutching the test report, Edwin was holding the cyan reagent tube, and Abraham was carrying a laptop, the screen frozen on the final frame of the wildfire virus being consumed by the serum.
The expressions on the three were surprisingly consistent—shock, excitement, and a hint of irrepressible urgency.
"BOSS, this serum—"
Edwin placed the reagent tube on the table without letting go, "Where did this come from?"
Wu Fan leaned back in his chair, his expression switching from embarrassment to strictly professional.
"Headquarters. I don't know exactly where it came from; they just told us to analyze the ingredients and replicate it as soon as possible."
The three of them exchanged glances.
Abraham pushed up his glasses, "Headquarters? Which headquarters? We never knew—"
"I don't know any more than you do."
Wu Fan's tone was as flat as if he were discussing what was for lunch in the cafeteria, "With something like this, it's good enough to even get a sample; who would tell you where it came from?"
Candice opened her mouth, wanting to ask something more.
Edwin nudged her arm and shook his head slightly.
He picked up the reagent tube and carefully placed it back into the case.
"Understood..."
He said, "We will analyze and replicate it as soon as possible."
The three turned and walked out.
When they reached the door, Edwin stopped and looked back at Wu Fan.
In that look, there was doubt, understanding, and a hint of something Wu Fan couldn't quite name.
After the door closed, Amy poked her head out from behind it, the blush still not quite faded from her face.
"Finished talking?"
Wu Fan beckoned to her, "Finished. Now, let's talk about our business."
Amy closed the door and locked it.
Early the next morning, Wells stood at the edge of the Hive helipad, looking up at the massive circular shaft above, and swallowed hard.
Behind him stood four trainees, all soldiers he had brought over from the National Guard; they had driven humvees and repaired tanks, but none had ever touched a helicopter.
The lift platform rose slowly, morning light spilling down from above, and the rotor blades of the Puma shimmered with a cold gray luster in the sunlight.
"This is..."
A trainee looked up, staring at the 30mm autocannon, "Is this the real deal?"
Wu Fan poked his head out of the cockpit, "Get in."
The five of them climbed into the cabin and squeezed onto the metal bench.
Wells sat in the co-pilot's seat, his fingers gently tracing the edge of the dashboard; the needles, buttons, and LCD screens were all labeled with abbreviations he didn't quite understand, but they were arranged neatly and glowing faintly.
[Ready—Concealment facility opening—]
The metal cover overhead slid open to both sides, and the sunlight poured in.
The lift platform slowly ascended, the Puma rising from underground to the surface, and the morning breeze rushed in through the open cabin door, carrying the scent of the wilderness.
Wu Fan pulled the control stick, and the helicopter wobbled as it lifted off.
Wells gripped the edge of his seat, his knuckles turning white.
"Watch closely."
Wu Fan's voice came through the headset.
He pointed to the main instruments on the dashboard and explained them one by one.
Altimeter, airspeed indicator, attitude indicator, heading indicator.
Wells tried his best to memorize them, sweat breaking out on his forehead.
The four people in the back were already half-dazed, their eyes following Wu Fan's fingers, their brains completely unable to keep up.
The helicopter circled over downtown Atlanta.
On the streets below, a group of Walkers were milling about at an intersection—probably over a hundred of them—their gray-white figures huddled together like a disturbed ant hill.
Wu Fan pressed the red button on the control stick. The autocannon roared.
Da-da-da-da-da—bullets poured out from beneath the nose of the aircraft, carving a gray-white line across the ground, sweeping from one end of the street to the other.
The Walkers fell like harvested wheat, row by row; heads exploded, bodies were flung away, and severed limbs were scattered everywhere.
The four in the back pressed against the windows, their mouths open wide enough to fit a fist.
Wells gripped the control stick, his hands trembling, but he didn't let go.
Wu Fan let go, letting him get a feel for it. The helicopter wobbled once, then stabilized.
"Fly it boldly..."
Wu Fan said, "There's no air traffic control now; fly however you want."
Wells nodded, gritting his teeth, pulling the helicopter up and then lowering it.
The four in the back couldn't care about being afraid anymore; they took turns crowding behind the cockpit to watch how Wells operated it.
When the autocannon ammunition was exhausted, Wu Fan took them for another lap over the city, pointing out landmarks below, explaining how to judge wind direction, how to find landing spots, and how to perform an autorotation landing if the engine failed.
This knowledge came from skill books, and now it flowed from his mouth as naturally as water.
By the time they returned to the base, it was already afternoon.
Wu Fan jumped down from the cockpit and patted Wells on the shoulder, "Take that reconnaissance helicopter of yours and practice with them; if you crash it, I won't blame you."
Wells: "ಠ ︵ ಠ convex"
Wells quickly replied, "Yes!"
He ran with the four trainees toward the assembled Little Bird reconnaissance helicopter, his steps much lighter than when he had arrived.
Wu Fan stood there watching for a moment, then turned and walked toward the main building.
In the third-floor office, Amy was organizing documents.
Seeing him enter, she put down what she was holding, her expression a bit strange.
"Merle went out."
Wu Fan took off his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair, "I know, I sent him."
"He left without reporting back; that's a bit against protocol... and he took the Stryker."
Wu Fan smiled and said, "The mission he's going on isn't exactly honorable, so there was no need to report it."
"What kind of dishonorable mission?"
"He's going to claim compensation for emotional distress."
Amy: "( ⇀ ‸ ↼ ‶ )"
When Wu Fan opened his desk drawer and reached in...
Hmm? I remember there being a pack of Lotus cigarettes left?
Did I remember wrong?
...
On a highway south of Atlanta, a Stryker wheeled armored vehicle gleamed with a matte black finish in the sunlight.
Eight wheels crushed the scattered broken glass and dried bloodstains on the road, making a faint crunching sound.
The 30mm autocannon turret on the roof rotated slowly, like a vigilant eye scanning the desolate fields on both sides.
Merle sat in the co-pilot's seat with his legs propped up high, a Lotus cigarette dangling from his mouth—the last one he had swiped from Wu Fan's drawer.
"How much further?"
He asked.
The team member driving checked the map, "About a dozen miles."
Merle nodded and rolled the window down a crack, the smoke drifting out through the gap.
No one in the car spoke. The team members in the back were checking their firearms, pulling out and reinserting magazines; the click-clack sound was especially crisp in the enclosed cabin.
The perimeter sentries of Woodbury were the first to see the vehicle.
It emerged from a bend in the road—gray-white body, eight wheels, the barrel of the autocannon on the roof pointing toward the sky like a silent giant.
The sentry rubbed his eyes, thinking he had seen wrong.
A Stryker, an infantry armored vehicle; he had only ever seen this thing in the textbooks at boot camp.
He grabbed his walkie-talkie, "Vehicle approaching! Armored vehicle! Coming from the north!"
The Stryker stopped at the town entrance.
The engine cut out, the door opened, and Merle jumped down, his boots hitting the ground and kicking up a small cloud of dust.
He took off his sunglasses and squinted at the small town—barbed wire fences, sandbag bunkers, and a few pickup trucks blocking the entrance as roadblocks.
Several people with guns stood behind the bunkers, their muzzles aimed at him, but their fingers were trembling.
Merle flicked his cigarette butt away.
"Get your boss out here."
He said.
When Caesar Martinez pushed his way out from behind the crowd, his face looked terrible.
He recognized the black uniform and the red-and-white umbrella logo.
He had seen it yesterday at the freight depot.
He had also seen it the day before yesterday on the highway.
He took a deep breath and stepped out from behind the bunker.
"What's this about?"
Merle looked at him, sized him up from head to toe, and then laughed.
That laugh made Martinez extremely uncomfortable; it was a punchable grin that made people want to beat him to death.
"The day before yesterday, you stole our supplies. Yesterday, you sent people to tail our men."
Merle pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, "The boss sent me to ask how you're going to settle this."
Martinez's expression changed.
The faces of the people behind him changed as well.
Some put their hands on their gun grips; others were swallowing hard. Merle didn't look at them, just stared at Martinez.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Martinez said.
Merle sighed, turned, and walked back to the Stryker, opened the passenger door, and took out a tablet computer.
He pressed a button, the screen lit up, and it played the footage of Crowley being captured yesterday; in the video, he was crying for his mommy and sobbing, confessing that Martinez from Woodbury had ordered him to tail them and find their lair.
"Who is Martinez! Stand up!"
Everyone looked at Martinez.
Martinez's face turned ashen.
"What do you want?"
His voice was hoarse.
Merle put away the tablet and patted the door of the Stryker.
"Pay up. Whatever you stole, pay double. Within three days, deliver it to the CDC. You already know the address."
He opened the car door and looked back, "If you don't come in three days, we'll come and get it ourselves."
The Stryker's engine roared to life again, its eight wheels crushing the road as it turned around and drove back the way it came.
Merle poked his head out of the window and waved at Martinez, as if saying goodbye to an old friend.
The shadow of the convoy grew smaller and smaller, eventually becoming a gray dot at the end of the road.
Martinez stood there, clenching his fists.
Someone behind him whispered, "What now?"
He didn't answer.
He turned and walked back into town with heavy steps, intending to ask the Governor how to resolve this.
The Stryker sped down the highway.
Merle leaned back in the co-pilot's seat, lit another cigarette, and turned on the music.
No one in the car spoke. He squinted at the wilderness passing by outside the window, wondering if that Governor would obediently pay up.
Probably not.
But he didn't care.
If they didn't pay, all the better; he'd have a reason to come back.
Next time he came, it wouldn't just be patting the car door.
In the third-floor office, Wu Fan remained silent for a long time after hearing Merle's report.
He stood by the window, looking toward the distant highway, and lit a cigarette.
"Three days."
He said, "If they don't come in three days, you take a team."
Merle's eyes lit up.
"What gear should I bring?"
"Bring everything you can."
Wu Fan flicked the ash, "Kill the chicken to scare the monkey."
Merle grinned and turned to leave.
The office quieted down, with only the occasional sound of construction drifting in from outside.
Wu Fan looked at the location of Woodbury on the map, then at the location of the CDC, and measured the distance with his fingers.
Seventy-plus armed personnel, a closed town.
Not a lot, but not to be underestimated. He opened the system panel and looked at the number on it.
He didn't have many points left, but enough. If it really came to a fight, he had helicopters, armored vehicles, and 30mm autocannons.
Plus over a hundred security personnel raring to go.
Wu Fan closed the panel and leaned back in his chair.
Hope that Governor is sensible... never mind, that lunatic probably won't be.
If he isn't, he wouldn't mind letting all of Georgia know that the Umbrella Corporation is not to be trifled with.
The sunset outside the window was falling, casting a dark red glow over the entire base.
~~~~~~~~
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