Carlos Oliveira

The damp air of the abandoned Raccoon City subway underpass was thick with concrete chips, stale smoke, and the smell of iron.
Carlos Oliveira was half-reclining, his back against the cold metal hull. His right arm lay limply on the concrete floor next to his assault rifle. His left hand clutched the torn fabric of his tactical vest to his side; the clawed creature had ripped through the thick Kevlar and skin as easily as if they were cardboard.
Blood oozed through my fingers in spurts, staining the fabric dark burgundy.
“Your mother...” Carlos croaked, spitting blood onto the dusty floor.
He tried to press the push-to-talk button on the radio on his shoulder. The device hissed, made a dry crackling sound, a thin stream of acrid gray smoke poured from the cracked plastic casing, and then the radio died. Footsteps.
Carlos instinctively gripped the rifle grip, raising the barrel into the darkness. Every muscle tensed, preparing for a final, desperate firefight. It wasn't a creature that ran out from behind a slanted subway car. It was a girl. She wore dark green UBCS camouflage, but a white armband with a red cross slung over her shoulder, and a heavy first aid kit slung at her side.
She saw the barrel pointed at her and froze for half a second.

• Ours! Don't shoot, ours!
  She ran up and fell to her knees beside him. She snatched up a pair of tactical scissors and, with one movement, ripped the fabric of his T-shirt open, revealing a wound from which blood was oozing in spurts. Carlos lowered his rifle. Oliveira stared at the stranger, his gaze fixed on her.
  The needle entered the muscle, and the medicinal foam hissed in the wound. Carlos let out a low, strangled growl, his teeth chattering.
  She applied a sterile pressure bandage, wrapping the edges of the wound tightly with elastic bandage. His signature, disarming Latin American grin slowly, involuntarily, spread across his dust-stained lips.
  "You know, senorita..." he croaked, his voice soft and velvety, his fingers still clenched on her shoulder. "I always thought military medics were just angry men with axes and alcohol. But an angel came down to me."