All that's left to do now is wait. The fading sound of gunfire tells me Carlos has made his way out of the building and on to the hospital. I've never exactly been one for church but I still find myself praying. That's all I can really do for him now. I'm certainly not in any condition for a fight. From the Umbrella documents I've read, I've got another eight or ten hours before the virus takes full effect, but it's wreaking havoc with my body already. Parts of me feel sluggish, others burn and itch. My mind is racing. I can deal with the symptoms; it's knowing what they ultimately lead to that's scaring me.
Ignorance is bliss. What you don't know can't hurt you. Stupid clichés both, but right now, I'm getting an insight into how they came to be. Words from the guard's journal I found at that mansion keep repeating in my head. Itchy, tasty. That's what I'm going to devolve into? I'm resisting like hell the urge to scratch because I'm too damn afraid of what will happen to my skin. I bet Bath & Body Works never made a skin cream for this.
That's it, Jill, distract yourself with humor. Think of the good things. The week Chris and I went to San Francisco, Samoa Girl Scout cookies, Benjamin Bratt episodes of Law & Order. These are a few of my favorite things. Great, not only am I turning into a zombie, I've been reduced to singing showtunes. Okay, let me try this again. Remember how Rebecca described the Hunters? She said they reminded her of frogs because they looked sorta reptilian and hopped around. Just like frogs, she said, except for the razor sharp claws and how they kept trying to decapitate you. Good, if I can laugh at those vicious little bastards, I can laugh at anything. Right?
Come on, Jill, you're stronger than this. Drop this nervous bullshit and focus on what you're going to do when Carlos gets back. He will be back. He's been dependable so far; I've got to believe he can do this. As for why he's doing he it... The mercenary with a heart of gold - another stupid cliché, but I seem to be encountering them in abundance tonight. Maybe this one has truth behind it too. Yeah, he's been a little sexist and condescending on occasion, but he's come through when it counted. You're supposed to be able to tell a lot about a person based on how they react to extreme situations and I don't think it gets more extreme than being chased around town by Tyrant's pissier big brother. Whatever Carlos may have done before he got here, he's acquitted himself well since. He will be back. And then we'll get out of this hellhole.


It's been two hours since Carlos left. Everything's been pretty quiet. The itching has grown increasingly worse, but I'm still here, still lucid. That's got to count for something.


Three hours. I'm looking at the watch Chris gave me for my birthday. I was shocked by how nice it was when I opened it. I wasn't shocked when Barry told me his wife helped Chris pick it out. After all, this is the guy who took me to a firing range on our second date. I think he was trying to impress me with his marksmanship. I know I impressed him with mine.
God, Chris, I hope that lead of yours was worth it. At least it got you out of town. I can't help but think of the irony. You didn't want me to come with you because you though it might get dangerous and well, look at me now. I wish you had left some kind of word about where you going. Not just for my piece of mind either. Your sister's been leaving messages on your machine. I called her back and fed her some crap about special duty out of town, but I know she didn't buy it. Claire's a lot like you, Chris, which she means she may just be determined enough to come to Raccoon City after you. I can only hope not. Not now, not ever. You don't like your highly trained girlfriend dealing with this shit; I can only imagine how you'd react if Claire was in my place. I know I get on your case about being overprotective, but your devotion to the people you love is the one thing I love best about you.
Wherever you are Chris, be safe. I miss you.


Three and a half hours. I'm starting to get stir crazy here. You can only recite your favorite poem over so many times before the words start to mush together and sound weird. At least I hope that's just the effect of repetition. I remember my failed attempt to instill some culture into Chris by reading him some poetry. I picked Emily Dickinson because I thought she would be nice and accessible since she's so well known. His response was to tell me that you can sing all her poems to the tune of "The Yellow Rose of Texas." Telling him that wasn't true resulted in him getting his guitar and treating me to the snazziest version of "Because I Could Not Stop for Death" that I've ever heard. I haven't read any of her stuff since. I never liked her gloomy-ass poems anyway.


Four hours. Still no sign of Carlos. He's been held up by something. If and when he gets back, what's he going to come back to? I'm trying not be pessimistic, but I've got to have a worse case scenario planned out. I'm not going to let him come back to a zombie. I won't let myself become one. I've still got my gun, and if it comes to that, so be it. I'm not afraid of dying, only living on as something else entirely. Everything that was truly Jill Valentine would be gone anyway. I've looked into a zombie's eyes. There's nothing there. No intelligence, no soul - the things I've always prided myself on completely stripped away.
I've never had any remorse for the zombies I've killed. I always figured I was doing the people they once had been a favor. Now I know how right I was.


Four and a half hours. I just heard the faint sound of an explosion somewhere from the south, the direction of the hospital. Taking your sweet time, aren't you, Carlos? At least the rain's starting to let up. Maybe I should take it as a good omen. I give my gun a good once over just in case.


Five hours, twenty-one minutes. Baaaaad omen. I can hear the inarticulate groaning of "S.T.A.R.S." out in the hallway. How did that piece of shit know where I was? I reach for my grenade launcher. If I'm going to go, I'd rather do it fighting that thing than feeling sorry for myself. I get up and start staggering towards the door. My body's on fire, but I've got to push through it. Movement's a problem. I'll just have to stand my ground and keep firing...


Five hours, twenty-two minutes. Carlos barricaded the damn door. Like that asshole out there gives a crap about a few pieces of plywood. Or was it to keep me in? No suicide run for Jill, she has to sit and wait until the bitter end like a good girl. Macho jerk. You went out on your own at the gas station. And I gave you a lecture for it. Screw it, I'm dying - I'm allowed to be hypocritical. If I stand all the way at the back of the room, I'll be at a safe distance to take out the door and fire a couple of shots before it can get to me. Come on legs, one last favor and that will be it...


Five hours, twenty-four minutes. Six rounds are loaded. Fingers are on the trigger. I'm ready...


Five hours, twenty-five minutes. Machine gun fire and more than a hint of Spanish cursing replace the guttural sound of "S.T.A.R.S." He made it. He freaking made it.
I can't take random shots with Carlos out there, so I drop the grenade launcher and let myself fall to the floor. He wouldn't have come back without the cure. He just wouldn't have. And he is back. And he will win this fight. All I have to do is wait.