Chapter 31: Fracture

With a piercing shriek from air friction—BOOM!

An explosion erupted less than fifty feet in front of them. The deafening blast nearly destroyed Jill's hearing.

Splat.

"Fuck!"

Her face twisted in pain as she rolled away from the spattering debris and scalding metal fragments.

Whoosh! The searing heat of the explosion hit with a visible shockwave, kicking up massive clouds of dust that made everyone instinctively squint.

"Jill, you okay?" Chris finally caught up, pulling her to her feet and dropping into a tactical half-crouch, weapon raised to shield her.

He exchanged a quick nod with the disheveled, bushy-bearded man beside him, the red-and-white Umbrella shoulder patch identifying him.

"What's your name?" Chris asked.

"Carlos Oliveira," the man replied.

As they spoke, the firelight from the explosion faded, revealing the T-103 Tyrant, nearly blown in half, collapsed on the ground.

Its chest cavity had been torn open. Beneath gray-black skin, writhing red flesh and shattered ribs and spine were exposed—but the Tyrant hadn’t died immediately. It continued to roar toward Jill, coughing up blood.

Rip! Its remaining muscles swelled and burst, spraying blood.

"Here we go again," Jill muttered. She knew this was standard B.O.W. behavior—Phase Two—but before she could warn anyone, BANG! BANG BANG!! Gunshots rang out.

One headshot. A .50 caliber high-energy round punched through the face. The Tyrant’s skull exploded, a fan of blood spraying outward. The second shot obliterated everything above the neck, and the third shattered the last connection between spine and ribs.

Click.

A pin pulled, a striker released. Jill looked to see a U.S.F. soldier traveling with Chris toss a red-painted grenade. Whoosh!

The explosion’s heat ignited the Tyrant’s remaining flesh. Thermite.

"Stop gawking, Jill."

Chris patted her shoulder, then tapped her backpack. "The evidence you collected—U.S.F. specialists will take it soon. You head to our temporary city base first and get patched up."

"Whew… holy crap. Where’d you get this badass gear? Very future-cop vibes. And they’re all Umbrella?"

Chris still wore his helmet, but Jill recognized his gestures and voice. Barely escaped with her life, having just witnessed that B.O.W.’s gruesome death, she allowed herself a small smile. Her taut nerves relaxed slightly, and she even cracked a joke.

Chris’s dark, full-coverage combat suit impressed her. Heavy ballistic vest with armor plates, full-sealed helmet with professional-grade respirator mask, unfamiliar night-vision optics—all top-of-the-line. Fluorescent ID bands on his arms screamed high-tech. And that rifle.

Somewhat reminiscent of Kalashnikovs, with hints of M16 and M4 designs, but heavier, more angular, a next-gen mechanical aesthetic—smooth, elegant, impeccable craftsmanship.

On his thigh, a compact yet massive large-bore short-barreled assault shotgun.

"Borrowed it from Russell," Chris said matter-of-factly.

Rat-tat-tat-tat! Continuous fire erupted. Muzzle flashes and muffled thunder made Jill frown, but Chris and the U.S.F. soldiers had already laid down a wall of fire.

ROAR! ROAR!!

From the alley smashed open by brute force, more T-103 Tyrants—battered from kamikaze drone delays—stormed out aggressively.

Carlos instinctively raised his M4A1 carbine and fired a few rounds.

"Alright, U.B.C.S. kid, quit wasting that 5.56mm peashooter," a U.S.F. soldier called. "Low-charge urban-rescue rounds don’t touch these B.O.W.s." He gestured for Carlos to fall back with Jill.

Carlos muttered nothing, begrudgingly obeying.

The U.S.F. gunfire was deafening. Calibers seemed to range from 7.62 to 7.92, and the ammo pressure was insane. Each shot tore through the Tyrants’ gray-black skin, spraying flesh and blood like fountains.

New weapons. New powder. Umbrella’s soldiers always had the good stuff. U.B.C.S.—the unwanted stepchildren.

Carlos chuckled self-deprecatingly and fell in step with Jill.

"Hey, big guy, feeling rejected?" she teased.

"Can’t help it," he shrugged. "Looks like they don’t need me..."

BOOM!

Another massive explosion. From the signal flare’s position, a cannon fired, sending a black dot hurtling through the air, slamming into a Tyrant. Its restraint coat fell away. The Tyrant barely reacted before the shell shredded its chest, leaving a charred, head-sized crater.

BOOM!

The building behind the Tyrant erupted in flames and smoke. Glass, stone, mangled flesh, and coat fabric flew in every direction.

Hiss-hiss-hiss—two more fire positions joined in, forming a deadly crossfire. Bullets fell like sharp, whistling rain.

Carlos and Jill exchanged a glance:

"Ma Deuce!"

The M2 Browning heavy machine gun—an heirloom of U.S. military firepower.

12.7×99mm armor-piercing incendiary rounds tore Tyrants apart, carving them like a sculptor with a melon baller. Limbs and flesh shredded instantly, leaving gray-black-and-pink honeycomb-like remains.

Two Tyrants with only upper-body mutations had their kneecaps shot out, forced to kneel. Another lifted a scrapped car, preparing to hurl it at Chris.

"Fire!"

Rocket trails streaked overhead.

The kneeling Tyrants had no time to regenerate before more rockets struck. The one lifting the car fared worse—one rocket detonated the gas tank, another decapitated it. The burning, headless corpse collapsed.

TAP! TAP! TAP!

Chris closed in, less than thirty feet from the front Tyrant. Copperhead barked in rapid fire, skull shattered, brain matter scrambled.

BANG! Another armor-piercing explosive slug hit a Tyrant’s head. Blood sprayed. Other U.S.F. soldiers engaged in coordinated, professional dismemberment protocols.

Head first, limbs next, then napalm and thermite. Brutal—but calculated.

From a half-collapsed two-story rooftop, Carlos and Jill watched, reflective. Ten minutes ago, hunted with no escape, utterly humiliated.

Gunfire continued. New recoilless rifles and rockets were tested by soldiers recording data, noting penetration and fuse timings.

"You're Jill. Hand it over."

"...Okay." Jill handed the backpack containing Umbrella’s Raccoon City evidence to a U.S.F. soldier.

"Please protect it. Umbrella’s bastards—"

She corrected herself, noting the umbrella insignia. "I mean… the hostile Umbrella."

"I know," the soldier said, inspecting the backpack. "Umbrella… won’t be for much longer."

Jill asked for a weapon.

"Oh, the U.T.S. guys. They specialize in destroying evidence and eliminating threats. Don’t worry—they won’t hunt you anymore."

She approached, overhearing a burly man bellowing.

"Oh? You’re the woman Redfield mentioned. Full of spirit. Any questions?"

he continued: "Handled the U.T.S. situation with networking. Umbrella’s armed forces—many were just people looking for work after ’91. Now I leaned on them a bit."

"Do you know who Redfield and we are working for in Raccoon City?" he asked.

"Who?" Jill replied.

"Ms. Vera Adelheid Russell, Regional Director of Umbrella USA and California Branch Supervisor."

From a converging squad, several in lab coats and suits wore red-and-white umbrella pins—Umbrella Raccoon City staff.

"Captain Andreyev, search and rescue at Raccoon City Central Hospital and Umbrella Raccoon Tower complete. These survivors are willing to expose William Birkin and the Board."

"Excellent. Ensure their safety," Andreyev said, turning to Jill. "It’s that simple. Umbrella’s a sinking ship. Those who wanted to survive joined our side."

Jill noticed Andreyev handing over a standalone LCD screen, displaying chaotic footage of San Francisco airport. Reporters swarmed a tall woman with light golden hair.

Volume up. Jill listened.

"I, Vera Adelheid Russell, in my capacity as a member of Umbrella’s Board of Directors, officially announce that Umbrella’s California Branch and USA Region are, effective immediately, separating from Umbrella Paris headquarters."