Okay boys and girls this is going to get a little crazy. Just a few things to note: first this story is going to start at the end of Afterlife and run through Retribution. Second this is based solely on the movies. Some of the chapters will be long others drabbles and the timeline is probably going to skip around. I own nothing but my OCs and the ideas herein and I ask that everybody pay attention to the M rating. It is here for many reasons- sex, gore, violence, blood and loads of swearing. Thank you all for reading and I hope you enjoy my insanity!

Crash Course Saviour

The waves crashed against the shore as fire reigned from the skies, blanketing the wet sand with chunks of debris and ash. Far off in the distance the Arcadia could be seen, explosions and gunshots barely audible as Umbrella waged war against the survivors that had taken the cargo ship. In the end it was a futile attempt-the Red Queen would never allow Project Alice to escape unscathed and those who stood with her would perish. The AI would wipe them from the face of the planet, leaving them to rot in the sun for the infected to gnaw upon.

If they were lucky.

But even with that knowledge spiraling through his brain Albert Wesker was finding he couldn't really care; too busy using his last stores of energy to drag himself through the surf. He'd found Alice's bomb scant seconds before the explosion, barely managing to jettison himself from the plane before it went careening into the pacific. And while he'd survived he found himself in a rather dire situation. He hadn't been in complete control of himself since his first face-to-face altercation with Abernathy; the injuries he'd sustained giving T the opportunity to slowly overtake his more human impulses.

He'd been deteriorating faster and faster, having to feed on raw genetic material- survivors, test subjects, employees- more frequently until the crew of the Arcadia finally fled for their lives. Before when he'd been on a proverbial floating lab with an almost endless supply of 'viable candidates' he'd found himself hard pressed to keep from gorging; having to work harder and harder to find some form of control to regulate the changes he was undergoing.

No, that wasn't the ideal situation to find oneself in-especially when said control was waning and fraying with every passing day.

But now? Stuck trying to wade through the bloody polluted waves; dodging chunks of debris and bodies as he slowly made his way to shore? Burned and cut to pieces and wounded so severely that he could feel his limbs refusing to move; felt the muscle and bones tearing and cracking with every move? Now he was even worse off. He needed to feed, to try and replenish some of the energy that he'd wasted lumbering against the tide; dragging the infernal torn and waterlogged parachute behind him because the damned release had been melted into the skin of his chest in the blast.

Project Alice and her tagalongs be damned. He had to get out of the water and away from this chute . . . and then he had to find something to eat.

Something alive and uninfected.

The tread of his boots finally dug deeper into the shifting sand underfoot, letting him breathe a sigh of relief as the waves rolled back; only crashing to just below his chest as he found his footing. Wesker grunted, tugging the parachute up over the crest of the breaking waves; nearly toppling as his charred burned leg ached and twisted in the seabed. He winced as he finally drug himself from the surf, running a hand over his face as he fell to his knees in the damp sand. Grimacing at the holes in his gloves-and the black flesh and exposed bone beneath them before he sighed.

The beach was littered with bleached bones and refuse, the debris from his plane almost indiscernible from the carcasses of the ships and vehicles that had crashed here before. When Los Angeles had been exposed to T it had taken the virus less than seventy-two hours to ravage the city and its neighbors; rendering over eighty percent of the population dead or turned before the end of the third day. By the second week of the Outbreak only the insane or insanely desperate would venture into the larger cities-meaning that his situation had just become even direr.

Alice had rallied her pathetic little group together from what was left of a survivor camp within a prison . . . and even then only a handful had survived to actually board the Arcadia. He doubted anything living would be within a hundred kilometers of the prison or the battle still waging over the waves he'd escaped from. Meaning he was going to have to make due with whatever he managed to scavenge before he could arrange a rendezvous with Valentine and the others.

If he even could.

He shifted his jaw, popping it back in place as he felt his mouth start to water; an all too familiar scent wafting to him over the decay and ash on the air. He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply before he let himself smirk; the torn burned tissue crinkling before his jaw started to unhinge. Something was alive in the buildings just beyond the shore, the panicked and fearful undertone to the scent almost ambrosia over the saccharinely sweet stench of the infected.

Wesker shifted, pushing to his feet as he reached for the straps to the parachute; tearing the melted metal and plastic from his ribs and chest without care as he steadied himself. He could wallow in his predicament later but at the moment there were far more pressing matters at hand.

Like saving his dinner for himself.

Rumer moved through the dark convenience store stock room, keeping his light close as he ducked beneath the caving ceiling tiles and over turned shelves; his eyes constantly searching the dark for anything of value. It was normally suicide to come into the cities, the large close buildings and crowded roads that had once been so comforting transforming into a deathtrap once the undead were factored in. But they were running dangerously low on good supplies . . . and he didn't care what anyone thought. He would risk getting eaten before he would trust anything out of a dented can again. The last time had almost killed him. He took a step further into the dark room, green irises scanning the back room for anything they could use; anything that might help them survive today.

So they could repeat the same damn process tomorrow.

He shifted, cutting his eyes over his shoulder to Sol as the older man cursed; a loud whack sounding before fading yellow light illuminated the man's face as he grimaced. Weathered tanned skin seemed darker under the artificial light, the man's wise blue eyes eerily light and focused as he inspected the torch; thick calloused fingers smoothing over the metal casing as he fiddled with the switch. Sol shifted on his feet, tucking his bag over his shoulder as he focused his full attention on the dying light; quickly unscrewing the lid and tweaking the receptors before he reassembled it.

Nodding to himself as the light flickered before steadying; the bulb burning bright white instead of the murky yellow from moments before.

Rumer smirked, shaking his head before he turned towards the back corner; white light blanketing the otherwise pitch room. Only Sol would stop during a run to mess with a flashlight . . .

Movement caught his eye as a shuffling sound reached his ears, making him turn towards the shut door tucked off to the side. He was deathly still for a few long moments, holding his breath as he listened and watched. The door moved but just barely, the fallen filing cabinet keeping it from opening all the way while the shuffling increased in volume. Rumer moved closer, his free hand going to the sharpened piece of rebar at his hip.

He and his group had learned early on that gunshots drew too much attention, turning one zombie into twenty in the time it took you to pull the trigger. While it was harder-riskier-to do things by hand it made them all safer in the long run. And to be perfectly honest he had become partial to the handheld spear; deferring to it instead of his guns whenever he was in close quarters. Something that ate his sister alive.

He tightened his grip on the leather and gauze wrapped rebar, moving quietly towards the door. He stepped up and onto the metal cabinet, wincing when the metal creaked and groaned; denting beneath his feet before it settled. Rumer moved down the overturned drawers, craning his head to peak into the blocked room. Only to breathe a sigh of relief at what he saw. The door led to a small room with an overturned desk, the back wall crumbled away to show the outdoors behind the store.

Rumer stepped off of the cabinet, pushing it away as he forced the door open; his eyes trained on the burning skies and waves in the distance in awe. He moved further into the room, barely hearing Sol call out to him; his mind focused on what was behind the fallen wall. There was some kind of ship off the shore, flames dancing along the hull as it wavered and staggered over the choppy waves. The skies were dark, clouds overhead threatening another round of torrential rain while thunder clapped in the distance.

Someone-some crazy out of towner had probably tried to board one of the ghost ships in the harbor; had tried to set sail without going over every last nook and cranny . . . Too bad they didn't know that the undead had claimed all of the them; caught in the holds and underbellies of the rotting metal giants while they waited for their next meal.

The boy watched the flames, never noticing the shadows move and recede; giving way to decaying flesh and bloody gnawing teeth. Rumer's eyes stayed trained on the war beyond the ruined store as clouded red tracked him; the walker's jaws working as it moved towards him slowly. When rotten bony fingers clutched at his shirt the dying ship's spell was broken; Rumer flinching back as he turned and swung the rebar spear wildly.

He stumbled over chunks of drywall and ceiling boards, staggering back to land on his wrist hard as the walker advanced; jaws gaping as it hissed and reached for him. But just as its skin grazed his the zombie was pushed back, a firm grip on the back of his shirt hoisting him up and away as the creature lunged forward again. Rumer barely caught himself as a black and blonde blur shot past him; a large figure craning the infected out as though it were inspecting it. Right before a cruel snort filled the room; followed by a sickening crunch.

Rumer watched as the figure-no the large man jerked his wrist; snapping the zombie's neck with seemingly no effort before he tossed it aside. The creature dropped to the floor, coagulated blood and pus oozing from the tears in its neck and jaws; the head almost completely severed as it lulled listlessly to the side. The boy watched the infected still, his eyes jerking back to his savior as the man stepped closer to him. But when he stepped out of the shadows-and into the light of the dying dismal day Rumer felt his heart stop.

This wasn't a man-not a normal one. The left side of his face was burned almost beyond recognition, the skin pale and waxy as what was left of his lips stretched down into a firm frown. He watched the man crane his head to the side; his eyes such a dark hazel they almost seemed red as they surveyed the trashed room. Rumer held his breath, eyes wide as he watched the man look around; his brain refusing to function as he struggled to process what was before him.

There was no way this person should be alive, not with exposed bone and so much burned damaged tissue. He might not be a brainiac like his sister but he knew enough about medicine and anatomy to get by . . . and there was no plausible way that this man was breathing. Let alone moving and tossing zombies around like tinkertoys.

Finally the man sighed, turning back to lock his decidedly red-not hazel, RED-eyes on him; his damaged lips twitching before he took a step forward. Every survival instinct Rumer possessed suddenly surged to life, causing him to scuttle back away from the doorway as he pointed; trying to push the words past his lips as he spotted something even more terrifying. The man just raised a perfect golden brow, eyes condescending as Rumer stuttered and pointed; trying to keep his voice low.

"L-l-look- . . . Be-h-hind-"

The man turned his whole body quickly, allowing him to see the walker that had snuck up behind the stranger; the larger zombie wasting no time in barreling forward with its arms outstretched and jaws open. The stranger spun on his less damaged leg, the exposed bone and tissue from the other seeping blood as he backed into the overturned desk. The Stranger hissed, reaching to clutch his injury as the zombie lunged for his exposed back. Only to recoil as black blood and tissue sprayed his face in time with a deafening roar; the walker dropping dead at his feet as the Stranger staggered back.

Rumer glanced to the doorway, wide eyes thankful when he spotted the familiar outline of Sol; his friend pumping the sawed off shotgun again as he raised it. The Stranger looked him over before he turned back to him; something in his eyes making Rumer's soul go cold. Normal or not this man wasn't like the other infected they'd stumbled upon. He thought and felt . . . and as Sol took aim and pulled the trigger; catching the man square in the chest Rumer knew he felt pain too. How could he not with the way he clutched at his chest; trembling hands clutching at his broken bleeding breast as he collapsed to his knees.

Sol pushed into the room as he repumped the gun, the spent shell casing dropping to the ground with a clatter as he tip toed around the now gasping stranger. Rumer watched, almost dazed as the man heaved and coughed; globs of bright red blood staining the cement at his knees as the Stranger struggled to breathe. Sol stepped closer, kneeling as he pushed the shotgun barrel against the man's temple; Rumer's voice finally returning as Sol's finger skated down the trigger guard.

Rumer moved, springing forward as he reached for the gun; his body blocking the shot as he started talking.

"STOP, Sol! Stop! He saved me!"

Sol's aim wavered ever so slightly before he shook himself, keeping the gun trained at the man now gasping behind him; eyes troubled but hard as he shook his head.

"He's infected, Rum. I saw the red to his eyes myself. Move."

Rumer shook his head, staying in the shot as he pointed back; the gagging wheezing noises causing his panic rise. He knew how this looked but by God he knew what he'd seen. This man-this stranger had saved him. And infected or not he wasn't like the others. It just wasn't right that he let him be executed after he'd intervened. Especially since he hadn't had to.

"NO! He saved me, Solomon. I can't forget that. And look, he isn't trying to hurt us. Hell, he's so torn up I don't think he can-"

Sol snorted, steadying the gun again; eyes clearing as he motioned the gun towards the man behind them.

"All the more reason to put him out of his misery. There's no hospitals that can help him, no doctors that aren't looking out for themselves."

Rumer felt his face go cold, his shoulders squaring as he glared at Solomon. In the beginning it had always been Sol who had pushed him and his sister to remember that they were human, to not rely too heavily on their instincts just in case they lost touch with who they'd been before. Now nearly two years later Sol was still the philosopher, still the shining voice of reason and hope among their little ragtag quartet.

He was the whole reason they were here! To find supplies and then look for Arcadia-wherever or whatever it was. So they could rejoin people, hold the illusions of safety in numbers until they made their next move. So why was he so insistent on this? Rumer shook his head, stepping closer to Sol; grabbing the barrel of the gun and aiming it at his chest. He kept the muzzle there, chin held high as he stood his ground. All the while praying that Sol didn't call his bluff.

"I won't let you do this. He's not a monster-he saved me. And I won't let you put him down just because he's different."

Solomon's eyes trailed back to the stranger gasping and kneeling behind them before he sighed; lowering the weapon with a huff before he slung it over his shoulder. Rumer watched Sol kneel, grabbing the stranger under one arm and hefting it over his shoulders; careful of the burns and seeping wounds as he heaved the man up off of his knees. After a second he turned, hazel eyes locking on green as he jerked his head towards the stranger's left.

"Well? You're the one who wants to save him. I'm not carrying him out by myself here."

Rumer nodded, scrambling back to the doorway to grab the bags Sol had dropped before; slinging them over his shoulders before he joined Sol. Slowly they lifted the stranger, helping to maneuver his broken mangled leg over the dead bodies and the fallen cabinet; easing him towards the front of the store. If they could get him to the Jeep then they could get to Rhome and Cill. They would know what to do-how to help him.

And if they couldn't then they could decide what to do.

Sol stopped at the broken glass doors, helping Rumer prop against the warped metal frame as he supported the stranger's weight; the odd man's head lulling to drop onto his shoulder as he groaned. Rumer shifted, nudging him awake; nervously chattering as Sol darted towards the older model Jeep. He needed to keep him awake, conscious and at last aware or getting him into the jeep was going to be damn near impossible.

"Hey-HEY! C'mon man. You need to stay awake . . . What's your name?"

The stranger roused, flicking his eyes to him before they closed again; Rumer's heart skipping a beat as he noticed the color. He'd sworn before that the man's eyes had been ringed in red-the same as the infected. But up close he could see they were actually blue. A light almost crystalline blue. Rumer turned to the Jeep as it pulled up and onto the curb, his eyes locking with Sol's as the older man pushed out of the vehicle. The stranger turned towards the noise, eyes open as he took in the vehicle before he sagged again; his breathing becoming erratic as more blood started to pour from the open wounds on his chest.

"Al-bert . . ."

Rumer paled as Sol rushed to him into the car, cursing the whole time they strapped the man into the seat.

"Damn it! This bleeding is getting bad. *SIGH* I didn't sign on for this. Just supposed to be a simple run-no muss, no fuss. Now we're taking in strays . . ."

Sol sighed, stepping back as he shrugged out of his dirty flannel over shirt; bunching it up before he pressed it against the stranger's chest. He turned, nodding to Rumer as he moved around to the driver's side; hands shaking as he glanced around skittishly.

"Get in and hold that on the wound. He can't afford the blood loss and we don't need the attention. Gunshot was bad enough-we don't need to ring anymore dinner bells."

Rumer nodded, climbing in the backseat; holding the shirt firmly against the stranger's chest as Sol slid in behind the wheel. He watched the older man sigh, his salt and peppered hair falling around his face in shaggy waves as he laid his head on the steering wheel. Rumer bit his chapped bottom lip before he scowled, turning back to check on their newest addition as his breath hitched and stuttered. He knew that this life was hard but Sol had never liked the darker side of survival; always trying to force reason and morals into their decisions.

Something he'd just gone against by almost shooting the stranger-Albert- bleeding nearly to death beside him.

Movement brought his eyes back to the front as Sol cranked the car, not even bothering to swerve and miss the few walkers staggering towards them. He clipped the first two, mowing over the third completely; the bump and jerk of the car telling him that he'd crushed at least half of it if he'd missed the sickening wet crunch of bone and tissue. Rumer didn't even bother looking back, knowing that he didn't want to see the mess his friend's driving had made; keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead of them.

Albert moved, the groan in his throat gurgling as he tried to shift away from the shirt; the fabric taking burnt skin and dried blood with it when he jerked back. Rumer hissed, pressing harder before he turned to Sol; nodding as their eyes locked in the rearview mirror.

They needed to get back.

And quick.

Rhome shifted as she glanced at the man bleeding all over the backseat of the Jeep, running her hands down her face as Cill paced beside her. The man-Albert her brother claimed- had apparently saved him from a walker before a second had descended upon them. Which is where Sol had come in. Sol admitted to shooting the man once, had almost shot him twice because he'd sworn his eyes were red but Rumer had stayed his hand.

And was refusing to let them even contemplate just ending his suffering the way Cill and Sol had suggested.

She sighed, her fingers going to knot in her dirty curls; her lips quivering as she fought the urge to delve into the packs of cigarettes tucked into the bottom of her bag. She'd happened across the cartons while they'd been upstate, scant days after the four of them fled Oakland. And while she knew the cigs would ease her nerves she was also aware she was dangerously low . . . and in the world they lived in she needed to conserve as much as she possibly could.

Still didn't mean that she wouldn't eat her left foot to be able to smoke one right about now.

The stranger shifted in the backseat, groaning as bright blood bubbled out of his chest; Rhome's eyes tracking the popping bubbles before she glanced to Cill. The former Ranger sighed, dipping his chin once before Sol and her brother sighed in relief. Solomon had been a retired philosophy professor turned bookstore owner-before the end-and Rumer had been in his sophomore year at Peralta. And in spite of everything they'd seen and done to survive the past two years she knew that neither would just let this man bleed to death.

Not if they could help him.

The only problem was she wasn't sure if they could.

Rhome turned to Cill, motioning him closer to the car as Sol and Rumer watched her; careful to keep her voice low as her eyes moved over the broken battered man before them. He looked like he'd been blown to hell-before he'd been shot.

"You're aware that there isn't any way we can do this right? Not with the limited supplies we have here."

Cill nodded, bending into the Jeep to check the man; clucking his tongue against the roof of his mouth before he sighed.

"He could be saved-if we had the proper stuff. His chest looks bad but the wound's not too terribly deep. The burns need to be cleaned and debrided; disinfected and wrapped. The bones could be reset but he won't be moving for a while . . ."

Rhome nodded, huffing to herself as she eased into the Jeep; carefully peeling back the soaked shirt to inspect the gunshot wound. Cill was right, it wasn't as bad as it had originally looked. Honestly before she'd thought his lungs were hanging through the gas in his ribs but now she could see that the breast bone was still-mostly-intact. Meaning his organs had only suffered concussive damage rather than straight out trauma.

She bit her lip, cutting her eyes to Cill before she sighed again; letting the shirt fall back to the man's chest as she nodded. She didn't like it-hell she hated it-but they couldn't do nothing. Even if every instinct in her body was screaming at her to let this man fade she couldn't. Her brother's conscience wouldn't be able to bear it. She reached out, smoothing his mottled hair from his forehead; wincing at how feverish his skin was before she cut her eyes back to Rumer.

Who had stepped closer, looking into the car like a fretful parent rather than a stranger helping a stranger.

God they weren't going to survive this unscathed.

"Alright, alright. I get it. Let's find a hospital . . . then we'll see where we go from their alright?"

Alright . . . on to the next chapter.