Chapter I
.:: Alone (...in the Dark) ::.
Stumbling out of the unsettling obscurity of the unlit portion of the subway tunnel, David King reached out as if to seize the muted illumination that enveloped him and embrace it. David took extensive stock of his surroundings, an exasperated sigh leaking from between desiccated, cracked lips like a weary rabbit from its soiled underground nest. His reliable party had long since departed from the area, the remnants of one of Raccoon City's acclaimed medicinal herbs resting in a ruined clump, its stem bare save for the intermittent appearance of dry, broken stubs that had been stripped of their therapeutic leaves.
One of them had been bitten, but he wasn't convinced that some remedial piece of shrubbery was going to counteract the inevitable outcome. David stooped, his tired knees sighing noisily. Inspecting the plant, David noticed several flecks of blood, syrupy—coagulated, Cindy had muttered following the first encounter with the soulless dregs roaming the bar. Setting his free hand on his right knee, David pushed himself into a lethargic standing posture, ducking slightly beneath the half-open shutter and stepping beyond, into more darkness.
Continuing onward, David perceived the dust-caked, expressionless face of the rear subway car. Turning slightly, he hoisted himself up and onto a raised platform that sat next to the oxidized, maroon-hued rails. His legs brushing hoarsely against the coarse edge of the concrete platform, David mechanically glanced down and that's when he spotted the spent shell casing, the white glow of the lone lighting fixture deflecting off the vacant copper shell and blinding him for a moment. Scrambling up and onto the platform, David scanned the mundane foundation for more casings when his eyes played over a crater the size of a dime that interrupted the otherwise level flow of the platform.
Intuitively checking his firearm, he moaned inwardly and cursed upon recognizing the gravity of his situation. He had conserved as much ammunition as he could by evading the ravenous clutches of every mindless cannibal the instant hed identified their futility when facing a sharp-witted, moving target, but he was short on ammunition. Barely half a clip, and any cartons of ammunition he did find in the bar he handed over to Mark and Kevin, who were of surer shot than he was, though he never made it a point to audibly state that—not when anyone was within earshot, anyway. "I can take care of myself," he would mutter when sharply shoving the burdensome cases into the hands of either of the two.
But now he wasn't so sure of himself. If not for the deficiency in visible outlets, he probably would've walked into another cannibalistic nuisance, wastefully squandering another trio of shots. But he didn't have that distressing option this time.
Proceeding cautiously through the corridor that had been staring him down for the last three minutes, David swung his weapon around its outlet and mouthed a quick presentation of gratitude to whatever God was minding him before his gratefulness was disrupted by the shrill squeal of metal chafing boorishly against metal. His eyes darting upward toward the source of the disorder, David spotted a heavy lift sitting at an awkward slant, and hurriedly began ascending the nightmarishly stretched flight of stairs.
The uneven clanking of his workman's shoes was deafening. He had no idea where he was going, but if he didn't find a break in the wall soon, he wasn't going to make it anywhere but Hell. Giving a fleeting look upward, not in the direction of the monstrous elevator but more at the wall, he identified an open ventilation shaft and accelerated. Another boisterous yelp was bellowed from above, and then another. Reaching upward before he even made contact with the duct, David claws at the aperture until his fingers wrapped around its meek plane. His legs driving him upward, David slipped into the shaft and began dragging himself toward the radiance at the end of the constricting passage.
After what seemed like hours, David peered over the lip of the shaft before tumbling out. Poring over the nondescript scenery, he caught sight of a section marker reading "BASEMENT LEVEL 6" smeared across its face in paled, off-white script. The monotonous whisper of heavy fabric being dragged reverberated from some unseen source down the hall. His attention drawn to the weakly illuminated break at the edge of a small waiting area, David's pessimistic inkling was asserted in the form of one of the lab hands-a technician, by the looks of him. A stale cobalt button-down shirt draped carelessly over filthy, blood-spattered khakis. Dime-sized perforations dotted the beings chest-unmistakable signs of a recent struggle. Peering over his shoulder, David caught a glimpse of a flimsy steel door and hastily spun on his toes, darting toward the door.
Taking hold of the rusty knob, David wrenched the door open and, upon entering, threw it shut and another frustrated sigh found its way creeping from between his lips as he slouched against the door. It wasn't until the disillusioned moaning had become progressively distant that David felt as though he could move again. He wouldn't confess even to himself that the state of desertion in which he found himself was beginning to get a little disturbing. It wasnt the dim-witted scavengers that had his stomach warped into a twisted assortment of apprehension and restlessness, but more the recurring point that the whole place was so quiet, and not in the passive calm he wouldve given anything to experience right now. It was almost a sense of foreboding, an ominous, invisible presence, like some sinister poltergeist toying with things just to catch him wincing in uncertainty.
Still propped up against the door and facing slightly northeast, David pushed himself away from the door and began to study the area into which he had come. He looked to his left—a small washbasin sat secluded at the back of a narrow corridor. A set of safety glasses rested at the countertop's edge. Turning toward the larger part of the space, David quickly discerned the area as a break room of sorts. The elliptical pairing of tables set in an "L" shape were disorganized, potting soil caking leafs of paper and writing utensils, a cracked clay pot the source of the muddle. Walking further into the seating area, David maneuvered around the tables and to the rear of the room. Lifting up a lead pipe, he swung it through the air behind him, a subtle hiss resonating from its hollowed-out core. While the bludgeon wasn't exactly appealing, as he didn't care much for physical melees with the undead, it was the only weapon available that could complement his firearm in some shape or form. Lockers were ransacked, a single shotgun shell lying at the feet of one. Gnashing his teeth in an unnecessary showing of determination and courage, David stepped out of the room, lead pipe in one hand and half-empty handgun in the other.
Heading southward, David did stumble upon a carton of supplementary handgun rounds. Though most of them were consumed by whatever entity had rummaged through the break room, there existed a sufficient amount to fill his magazine, and a spare that he set in the chamber. Sixteen rounds, now. A crooked smile etched across his abrasive demeanor, David pushed himself to his feet—
—and he barely had enough time to clumsily bat away the mobile corpse, his right hand scraping across its rotting ocher teeth. Acting swiftly, David brought the barrel of his weapon against the left temple of the reeling former human, his forefinger squeezing the trigger. The things head detonated in an veil of blood, bone, and brain matter, most of it slapping wetly against Davids face and neck.
Brushing ineffectively at the repulsive filth that now coated his skin, David turned and retched, mostly gummy, gelatinous spittle forming a viscous pool at his feet as opposed to what he'd eaten prior to this...nightmare. The same thing had happened back at the bar, in the neighboring apartment building. He was the first to depart the elevator after it'd gone down to the first level, and his irrationality almost got him killed. The amateur cop spent a single round to send the ghoul crashing to the floor before it had clamped down on David's throat. Of course, he'd learned from his momentary lapse, but that didn't make his current position any healthier. Going it alone when everything was so bleak—maybe that wasn't such a fine idea after all.