The Fall of Raccoon

Chapter 1: Prelude to The End

Raccoon City was once a small Mid-Western American town with a population somewhere in the region of 150,000, with an economy that was primarily centred on Umbrella Incorporate, one of the largest Pharmaceutical companies in the World, which developed cutting-edge medical technologies and various commercial products, such as Safsprin and Aquacure, its crowning public glory. At least 30 of the city is employed by Umbrella, and Umbrella itself have dedicated funding to a majority of the new building projects in Raccoon in the last few years, from the establishment of the new cable car system to improvements in the city's electrical system and numerous other projects ranging from welfare work to law enforcement. Raccoon City was developing at a good rate, and with Umbrella aiding its growth it seemed nothing could go wrong.

But in the Summer of 1998, all of that would come to a tragic end, and Umbrella had a large hand in Raccoon's downfall…

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September 25th, 0906 hours, Raccoon City

At the Raccoon Police Department, a young officer emerged from the back door of the station leading into the parking lot and approached one of the police cruisers parked near to the building, sweeping down the front of his white buttoned-up shirt, which made him uncomfortable, being freshly washed for that morning. He also wore the dark blue pants and black shoes which were standard-issue to all R.P.D officers, along with the flak vest underneath his shirt that was already making him perspire from the heat. Finally, his standard-issue Beretta M92F 9mm handgun was holstered at his waist, along with his nightstick, a pair of handcuffs, pepper spray, and extra magazines for his handgun.

He unlocked the car and got in; adjusting the rear mirror and chair, because the jerk who last used it hadn't bothered to set the seat position back to its initial place.

"Not fucking again," he muttered, looking at himself in the mirror. He had brown eyes and short, dark hair, currently styled up with wax so it was off his forehead and his skin was slightly tanned. His face was also freshly shaved, and the aftershave he'd put on still stung him slightly, partly because of the tiny cut on the right side of his chin, which was nearly fully healed by now.

His name was Dean Travers, 26 years of age, and one of the more recent members of the R.P.D, having first joined 2 years ago. He was about 5' 9'', with short, dark hair and green eyes, and of a fair build. He was born and raised in Virginia, where for years he worked on his parent's farm, then as soon as he was old enough he moved away to New York, where he drifted from menial job to menial job, wishing more and more for something more stimulating and exciting. Then two years ago his oldest friend, Ben Campbell, gave him a call and offered him a place in the police force in Raccoon City. For his whole life, Dean had never imagined himself being a police officer, but he still took the oppourtunity up, and he ended up passing his entrance exam the first time, which was a total suprise to him. He soon found out that most of the other officers were fairly decent people to hang out with, and he ended up settling into the whole job and new home with surprising ease.

"Hey! Hold up!" shouted a familiar voice, causing Dean to look up. It was Campbell, running out of the back door, holding what appeared to be a Remington shotgun in his hands. That was when Dean realised that it was the shotgun that was supposed to be in the car with him, but wasn't there. Campbell tore open the door and flung the weapon in, forcing Dean to quickly catch it before it hit him in the groin, then putting it in between the front seats, the stock bared to them with the barrel aimed into the floor.

Campbell pulled himself into the passenger side, slamming the door shut and panting for breath.

"Forget about me or something?" he asked, wiping his brow with a tissue.

"Relax, I was just warming the engine," replied Dean playfully, punching his partner in the arm.

"Yeah, whatever!" came the reply.

Ben Campbell was about the same age as Dean, but with short blond hair and blue eyes instead, along with a thin face and a cocky smile. He was the joker of the R.P.D, always pulling practical jokes on the other unsuspecting officers in the precinct. He was a relative veteran of the R.P.D, on the force for 5 years, and therefore held the responsibility of training up the new recruits. There had been a lot of new recruits coming in for the last couple of days, due to all of the attacks around the city and the unusually high death rate among a lot of the regular officers. But for now, he was Dean's patrol partner for the day, just like he had been for the last 6 months.

"We're off to Bar Jack today, Dean," said Ben as he pulled on his seatbelt. That place was a popular hangout for many of the officers on their break, as the owner, Jack, was a former officer himself and most of the current officers treated him like a sort of father figure.

"Another murder?" inquired Dean, as he turned the key and started the car up.

"That's right. Same MO as always, another bloody mess, said the guy who called it in," continued Ben as he picked up the in-car radio. "This is officer Campbell, me and Officer Travers are on our way to Bar Jack now, so that's covered."

"Copy that," came the reply. Dean drove the car out onto Central Street and took a left turn, heading downtown towards their location.

The whole city had been on edge recently, ever since last week, when the first reports of brutal murders filtered in from all over the city. Every victim was apparently eaten alive, but the murderer each time was someone completely different, sometimes a loved one, but most of the time it was a complete stranger who lived in a different place across the city from the murder scene. The attacks were escalating more and more, and even the police themselves weren't safe anymore, hence the new recruits. Even the SWAT teams were called in occasionally, and every time they came back one or two of their number was dead and gone.

He didn't know if it was a gut feeling or just plain superstition, but Dean guessed this was only a prelude to something much worse.

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The cruiser pulled up outside Bar Jack, where a small crowd had gathered outside. The two officers got out and put on their peaked R.P.D caps, as Dean locked up the car and followed Ben down the stairs into the Bar.

"Come on people, don't bother sticking around," he said to the throng, holding his hands up. A few of the people looked at each other and moved away down the street, but most of them remained. He wasn't surprised. They were all terrified and on edge ever since the attacks. Sighing in slight defeat, he followed Ben into the Bar.

The Bar was a fairly small place, only about 20 square feet, with no tables, just several stools at the actual bar. The main bar itself was L-shaped, leading from next to the back door around to the cash register. A couple of pinball machines were also in place next to the front door. A few worried-looking patrons remained within the bar, obviously waiting around to be questioned by the cops. Ben was already talking to Jack, the manager and owner. Jack was a middle-aged guy about 43 years of age, his dark hair greying in areas, and wrinkles forming on his small face. He was about 5' 10'' and had slight hunch in his stature, part of a deliberating illness that forced him to leave the force. He was currently wearing a filthy apron over a white shirt and dark trousers, and he was going over his story with Ben.

"…soon as I heard the screaming, I grabbed for my gun and went out back to take a look, and that's when I saw it. She was dead on the ground already, and he was crouched over her," he continued, his gaze shifting down.

"What else happened, Jack?" asked Ben, flipping over a page on his notepad.

"He was eating her, I'm sure of it!" said Jack suddenly, a bit louder this time," the emotion in his voice coming through. "I shouted at him to stop, and he just came at me. I shot him in the knee, but that didn't slow him down. In the end I had to use all 6 rounds to put him down for good." His gaze shifted to a .38 revolver lying on the bar next to them. Most likely it was the sidearm Jack always kept under the bar in case of trouble, along with the ancient Mossberg shotgun he'd heard about, but had never seen.

"You realise we'll have to take this in for evidence, Jack?" said Ben, as he pulled on a latex glove. "You know, for procedure and stuff?"

"Yeah, yeah," replied Jack, sounding a little defeated as he carefully handed the weapon over to Ben, who held it between his thumb and forefinger before turning to Dean.

"The coroner's already looking at the bodies outside. Go have a look would you? I still need to talk with the other patrons."

"Yeah sure," replied Dean with a slight smirk, carefully brushing by the other two to get outside. The door opened up out into a tiny alleyway and down some stone steps into a small open area that was strewn with random junk and crates full of detritus, while another set of steps at the back lead into a small system of alleyways. One thing Dean quickly learned about Raccoon City was that the sheer number of alleyways between the buildings was mind-boggling.

But for now, a pair of corpses lay in the middle of the area on the cement. One of them formerly a blond female in jeans and a red shirt lying on her side, and with a pool of blood underneath her, and the larger corpse of a male lying a few feet away, dressed like a businessman, also with blood underneath him. As he stepped closer, he could see that the man's skin looked a deathly pale shade and he appeared to have a deep cut across his forehead. The smell that suddenly hit him made him recoil in shock.

"Ah, there you are," said a voice near him, and he span around to see a middle-aged gentleman wearing white scrubs and kneeling next to the female's body. He was going bald and wore thin-framed glasses, and looked like he could've been a college professor. "I'm Dr Myers," continued the old man, "I presume you're here to look at the bodies?"

"That's right," replied Dean, walking over to crouch next to the Dr. "So shall we start with our victim?"

"Sure, why not?" replied Myers, turning his attention to the frail and ruined body. "Cause of death appears to a single bite to the jugular, which tore open her jugular vein, causing her to bleed out in seconds. She didn't stand a chance."

"Bitten?" replied Dean, looking at the torn flesh on her throat, and could clearly make out the crimson flesh and muscle tissue. "As in, human bites?"

"That's right, replied the Dr, shifting his focus to the other body. "Our friend here, on the other hand has quite a few surprises up his sleeve."

Dean approached the body again, and that smell hit him again. Now he was standing over the guy, he could see that skin on his face appeared to be peeling away like it was rotten, and that the man's eyes were almost completely white, closer to a milky tone, like dead eyes. The man's mouth was open and his teeth were clearly visible, covered in flecks of blood, probably from his young victim, and they were also yellow and showing signs of rotting. The man's fingernails appeared to be longer and sharper than usual, almost like claws.

Dean took main notice of the numerous bullet wounds in the man's torso, the ruptures that lead from his stomach and finally into his left cheek, the area around each wound stained with crimson blood. Dean grimaced as he took it all in.

"Our man here apparently took all 6 shots from a .38 revolver before he finally died, apparently. Think he was under the influence of PCP?" asked the Dr. It was a well-known medical fact that those high on PCP couldn't detect pain until the drugs wore off, which could explain why the man took so much effort to kill.

"A guy on PCP can't take half a dozen shots to the body, Doc," replied Dean with a smirk as he crouched down and looked closely at a small patch of congealed blood.

"Blood usually congeals when a person dies," continued Dr Myers, scraping some of the crimson liquid from the cement into a small glass tube for testing back at the lab. "Except that this blood came from one of the initial wounds."

"So you're saying this man was already dead before Jack shot him in the head?" asked Dean, standing up.

"I'm not sure what to make of all this," replied Myers, standing up also. "This man bears all the hallmarks of a dead man. When you're dead, you're skin rots away and your nails continue to grow, and this man bears both of these properties. He also stinks like he's been lying in the sun for weeks!" he finished, gagging and covering his face with a handkerchief.

The sound of a door opening behind them made them turn just as Ben walked up, carrying Jack's .38 revolver in a small plastic evidence bag.

"So what's the story?" he asked. Dean explained all of the doctor's musings in as short a period as he could, and finishing by handing him the tube with the congealed blood in it.

"So supposedly-dead people are walking round killing folks?" he asked, tucking the tube into one of his shirt pockets. "What is this, some kind of zombie movie?" He said that last part with a chuckle, but Dr Myers seemed a little reluctant to join in on the humour. After a somewhat awkward silence, Dean cleared his throat and turned to the Doctor.

"Thanks for the help doctor, get the bodies back to the morgue and we'll take it from here."

"As you wish," replied the old man, walking away to fetch his assistant and a gurney to move the body. At the same time, Ben grabbed for his radio and spoke into it.

"Control, we've got a pair of bodies coming in from Bar Jack, and we shall continue our patrol for the day, out."

"Copy that," came the reply. Ben hooked his radio back onto his utility belt and turned back to Dean. "Come on, patrol's calling!" he said, punching him in the arm playfully.

"Yeah, I'm coming!" replied Dean as he walked after Ben. He glanced back momentarily at the pair of bodies lying on the concrete, and somehow told himself that these wouldn't be the last bodies he'd have seen by the end of the week.

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2013 hours

By now, Dean's day shift was over and he'd spent the last few hours at home, giving it a much deserved tidy up. He hated to admit it, but he was something of a litterbug. He only cleaned his apartment once a month at the most, and the thick layer of dust and grime was sticking out like a sore thumb as he passed by with a duster cloth and vacuum cleaner. It was a modest apartment, with a reasonable rent and a nice view of the East side of the city, including over the Circular River and the nearby College, and a scenic view of the Arklay Mountains outside the city limits. Right now he sprayed some glass cleaner onto the TV screen and wiped it clean, as the evening news was beginning to wind down.

Suddenly, the message, 'Urgent News Story!' flashed across the TV screen, and Dean took notice of it. He sat himself down on his couch, dropping his cleaning stuff onto the spot next to him as he leaned a little closer to the screen so he could take it all in. A stern-looking female reporter appeared on screen.

"In spite of the numerous brutal murders occurring in the Raccoon Area, earlier today, R.P.D chief Brian Irons issued a public statement to the general public with a focus on public safety during this turbulent period." The camera switched to the courtyard outside the R.P.D, and to a wooden podium with a rather podgy figure stood behind it, wearing an official police uniform that looked too small for him. He had a podgy face and thick moustache, and numerous camera flashes were threatening to engulf him. He was the Chief of Police, Brian Irons.

Dean knew from the first time he met the chief that he was an unpleasant individual. He had a rather morbid fascination with works of 'dubious' art, such as naked women being burned at the stake, that sort of stuff. The chief was leering at one such piece when he first met him in the Briefing Room at the precinct, and that look on his ugly face made Dean shiver. Even more disheartening was the Chief's manner: he looked down at all the new recruits like they were trash, and at one point Dean saw the chief go berserk at his own secretary who accidentally nudged one of the statues on the second floor, to the point where he was screaming at the top of his lungs. That lunch break, every officer was talking about it, you could have heard the chief from down in the basement, they said. It was general consensus that most of the senior officers would've been a better choice than Irons was for the position of chief.

"People of Raccoon City," began the chief, raising his arms like a preacher addressing his flock. Dean rolled his eyes. "I know you are all on edge due to the increasing number of attacks within the city, but I assure you, the officers of the Raccoon Police Department and SWAT operatives are working around the clock to make sure that you sleep safe in your beds at night." The chief took a deep breath and wiped his brow free of sweat before continuing.

"But for the sake of your own personal safety, I urge you all to remain in your homes at night, and not to linger in dark areas of the city. We are being attacked from within, and we shall not allow our foe to best us. That is all, thank you. Once more I urge you to remain strong during this turbulent time, thank you!" And with that, the chief began to get down from his podium as a chorus of voices all put forward their questions to the chief, who didn't want to answer any of them.

Dean flicked off the set and sat in silence for a bit, letting it all sink in. This week alone he'd seen at least half a dozen bodies around Raccoon City, all of them killed in a similar manner, and these attacks were increasing in number and brutality. The people were scarred to go out at night, and the city was closer and closer to resembling a ghost town by the hour. He had a feeling of dread that the future was looking bleak indeed for the city.

He didn't realise that the city was already doomed.

A/N: So the first couple of chapters are just here to set the scene for the bloodshed to come, so please R + R if you want to.