Day One

06 February, 1996

The nagging sound of an alarm woke him from a deep sleep. He reached over and deactivated the small alarm clock on the nightstand by his bed, and rotated to get his feet on the floor. With a yawn and a stretch of his back, James Cooper was mostly awake. He took a moment to look around at his current room; it was the first time he'd slept here. He had been promised something better if he met the qualifications to be an Officer. The place was cramped, even for a soldier. His bed took up most of his "living room" and the only other pieces of furniture were his metal locker and nightstand. He headed into the bathroom to take a quick shower. At least they'd honored his request for a one-person room.

As James showered, he reflected on the past six months of his life. He had been in the LAPD since he was eighteen. Having excelled in the Academy, he was quickly picked up by the understaffed Police Force. He was now twenty-three, and had already seen his fair share of action and trauma. Although he quickly rose through the ranks in the Force, he found himself discharged after an act of "brutality" during the now famous LA Riots. He found it almost funny that they had overlooked how many lives he'd saved by eliminating the would-be armed robbers that day.

Soon after his career had ended, he had received a letter from the international pharmaceutical corporation Umbrella. It was a simple, impersonal letter expressing the company's desire to develop a new Private Security Service, and they were looking for experienced individuals to help develop it. Seeing as the pay was generous, and he was low on options, James quickly took the job.

The following few weeks of his life had been...different. He met with Umbrella representatives from around the world in Miami. Umbrella paid for his flight, his food, and a nice hotel room for the time he spent out there. A dozen others were given the same treatment, each from various law enforcement or military backgrounds. There were two former U.S. Marines from Force Recon, a Navy SEAL, a former Officer from British S.A.S., one from Spetsnaz, and others. They met with the same Umbrella executives every weekday at the same conference hall, answering the executives' strange questions about tactics, training, combat situations, equipment. To James, it seemed they were interested in riot control – one of his specialties – as well as covert operations and recon. Of course, secrecy waivers had to be signed by everyone involved, but the executives seemed to gather quite a knowledge base from the motley lot of soldiers.

And now here he was, on a remote island near Brazil, preparing to try out for this "Security Service". The executives had selected James and a few others from those meetings to field test as potential training Officers. The others, he doubted he'd see again.

He stepped out of the shower, quickly drying himself with a towel. As he brushed his teeth, he looked at himself and realized how much he had changed physically in the last few months. He no longer shaved consistently, and had stubble down his jaw and across his chin after having not shaved for three days. His hair was a bit more unkempt then they would have allowed it in the Force. His blue eyes looked colder then they used to. He was even more physically fit then before, having been able to devote more time to P.T. since he had become unemployed. He wanted to shave before his training today, but checking the clock, he realized he didn't have enough time.

Dressing in his issued black BDU uniform and duty boots, James grabbed his brand new ID card and headed out the door.

His boots made hollow echoes on the concrete floor of the hallway. He was instructed to head to the indoor firing range first. On his way, he passed employees dressed in button up shirts, slacks, lab coats. Researchers? He wondered what they were doing here, but let it pass. He continued down the hall.

James opened the door to the indoor range, and found it oddly quiet. He spotted only two individuals in the large room – an athletic looking Brazilian with a mustache and a pale Englishman with a decorated red military dress coat. He almost raised an eyebrow at the man with the red coat, but approached the pair and extended a hand.

"James Cooper."

The Englishman only nodded. "Alfred Ashford."

"Head of the facility?" James asked.

"Correct, Mister Cooper."

The Brazilian quickly took James' outstretched hand, noticing that the ex-cop had taken a quick disliking to Ashford – not that that was uncommon.

"Flavio Raval. Nice to meet you, Cooper."

"Pleasure. So, where is everybody?" James asked, looking around again at the empty room.

"It'll be just you for now, Mister Cooper. I want to examine all of the trainees individually today. As you probably guessed, you'll be working with live ammunition today." Ashford explained.

"Will that be all?" James asked.

"We'll see."

"Come right this way, Cooper." Raval said, leading James to a firing station.

There were two weapons laid out as well as ammunition for each; a Heckler & Koch MP5A3 and a Beretta M9. Both of them were weapons he was familiar with. James looked down the range, spotting a single "human torso" paper target thirty yards away.

"Pistol first." Raval told him.

James nodded, picking up the handgun. He loaded one magazine into it.

"Go ahead and unload the whole mag."

James opened fire in a rhythmic fashion. Within just a few seconds, fifteen rounds had gone down range. James laid the handgun back on the counter as Raval hit a switch that reeled in the target. All fifteen rounds had hit in an impressive cluster.

"Impressive." Ashford commented.

"Thanks." James said gruffly, not looking at the man. His gaze was fixed downrange as Raval set up one more target.

"Go ahead with the MP5." Raval said once the target was in place. "This time aim for the head."

James hesitated, ignoring his urge to ask why, and picked up the submachine gun. He slapped a mag into place and took sight. He fired off all thirty rounds on semi-auto, taking more time with this gun. When the target came back, there was virtually nothing left of the head.

"Nice work, Cooper." Raval said as he handed the targets to Ashford.

Ashford looked over them briefly and nodded. Raval opened up a metal case against the wall, and withdrew a black gun bag, utility belt, and load-bearing vest.

"This is yours from now on." Raval said. "The weapons are, too. Go ahead and put on the gear, and we'll head to the Killhouse."

"We'll head to the what?"

Two large steel doors roared shut behind him. James now stood alone in the "Killhouse" wearing his newly issued tactical gear and wielding his MP5. His Beretta sat comfortably in his holster. He looked around. The Killhouse looked like the inside of an Office Building, with several rooms in an inconsistent pattern connecting to eachother. There were several gray doors without handles. Suddenly, Ashford's voice boomed over a P.A. system.

"Cooper, can you hear me?"

"Yeah, loud and clear." James said as he noticed a security camera watching him.

"Proceed to floor two of the Killhouse. You'll find a computer terminal there. Turn the computer on, and then return to your point of entry for extraction."

James almost huffed. This seemed pointless to him. Nevertheless, he nodded, raised his MP5 and turned off the safety. He swiftly yet cautiously worked his way through the rooms, sweeping each one as best he could without a team to back him up. The place was decorated to feel very real, minus the presence of windows. He even almost chuckled when he saw a bloody smear on a wall. Soon, he came to a staircase. He cautiously worked his way up the staircase; again spotting a security camera watch him.

Working his way through more rooms, he soon found a computer on a desk. It looked normal enough. He approached it and found the power button on the computer tower. He pushed it. That's when the lights went out. For a second, he was very disoriented. It was now pitch black. He quickly turned on the flashlight attached to his MP5 and looked around.

"Uhh...was that supposed to happen?" He asked out loud, hoping for a response from Ashford. But there was nothing. A power outage? He briefly struggled in his head to come up with a course of action; wait here for further instructions, or go back to the entrance? Technically, the computer was still off –

His thoughts were broken when he heard the rusty sound of a door open. Not a regular hinged door – but a sliding one. And definitely not the door leading out of the Killhouse. With his flashlight, he spotted the staircase. He looked around the room he was in, seeing nothing. Then he heard another door open – and another...and another. Muffled sounds began to fill the air. Sounds of slow breathing. Moans. Shuffling feet. He slightly lowered himself and crept towards the staircase, deactivating his light and listening intently. He naturally wanted to call out "Hello?" and find out what was going on, but his training had taught him otherwise. There was something going on. But was it really part of this stupid test?

As he patiently waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, he crept closer to the stairs. The sounds of shuffling feet and low moans continued. He felt the hairs on his arm stand up as he caught a stench coming up the staircase.

He checked his rear, and slowly made his way downstairs. As he rounded the bend in the staircase, he peered into the lower floor, trying to spot something. He slowly entered the first room, checking his left-hand corner first. And then he heard a single, raspy breath. He quietly turned to his right, barely making out a figure in the darkness. The man was just standing nearly against a wall. James could see where the man had come from. The bottom of the gray, handless door was just visible from the ceiling. A metal closet was what had been behind the door. Airtight, from the look of it. How long had he been inside that?

James aimed his MP5 in the man's direction and risked communication.

"Hey, buddy." He whispered. "This part of the test?"

The man slowly turned to James' call. He groaned in a low, guttural voice and took a single step towards James. James wondered if the man could see him.

"Hold it there." James ordered. "Just answer the question."

The figure took another step.

"I said stay there!"

James gave the man a blinding warning flash with his light. He caught a brief glimpse of the man. The man took another step. James could tell something about the man wasn't right. He risked a longer look with his flashlight, illuminating the room in front of him, and he froze.

The mans eyes were either white, or rolled back into his head. James couldn't tell. His skin was light gray, his veins and nerves visible through somewhat transparent skin. He was dressed in an orange jumpsuit. It said "Rockfort" on the left breast pocket.

"That's close enough!" James snapped.

The mans mouth opened in a loud moan. His teeth were cracked, rotted, and broken. Blood stained the inside of his mouth, and his chin. That did it.

James fired a double-tap from his MP5. The first caught the man in the solar plexus, the other caught him right in the forehead. The man sank to the ground without another sound. Then the ambient noise increased. Feet shuffled in his direction. Moans grew louder, reacting to the gunfire. He could hear more coming towards his position. He didn't know if we was supposed to shoot the man or not, and he didn't much care. He had given plenty of warning. The door to the room burst open, and two more equally sickly looking men in orange jumpsuits burst in, shambling towards James.

He gave no warning. He fired at each of them, hitting one in the head, and hitting the other in the chest. The one who was shot in the head went down. The other didn't even react to the bullet hitting him, and continued towards James.

James had seen some weird things when he was on the Force; like men on PCP taking a bullet, or a fall from a third story balcony, and popping right up and sprinting away at insane speed, but nothing at all like this. He knew the shot had punctured a lung, at the very least. He fired again, puncturing the other one. The man pressed on. James couldn't believe it, but fired one more time and put the man down with a headshot. He cautiously stepped over the two bodies in the doorway and pressed through the next room, heading for his exit.

In the observation room, Raval and Ashford sat in front of an arrangement of monitors that displayed the various rooms of the Killhouse. They watched as James efficiently mowed down everything in his path, quickly reloaded his MP5 and mowed down everything that kept coming. There was even a moment where one of the Undead grappled him in the middle of reloading. James expertly drew his pistol, placed it against his assailants temple, and blew his brains out. He reequipped his MP5 and went back to work until he reached the exit and banged on the door. He took up a defensive position there.

"What do you think, Mister Ashford?"

"I think he's going to do just fine." Ashford replied, folding his arms in front of his chest. "Just fine."