Disclaimer: I don't own any of the names, characters or places lifted from the already existing Resident Evil universe. Nor do I own any of the products mentioned in the text. I don't get any profit from this. In fact, if you want to give me piles of cash because you think the story is so good, you can't.

Before anyone starts laughing and pointing I'd like to apologize for any misspellings and grammatical curiosities. (Translating into English forces me to think and it really slows me down.)

As a last note I'd like to warn that the text does contain some bad language and violence (mostly zombies getting their heads smashed in), so if you are offended by this, or just aren't interested, I suggest you turn around right now.

Resident Evil: T-QR

(An alternative version of what could have happened to someone else during the RE-movies.)

Episode 01:"An Afternoon of Beer, Fishing and Tranquillizer"

Nathan Springfield pulled the handbrake and got out of his red -93 Subaru Justy. This place always got him in a better mood. The long drive up; gravel roads with holes big enough to loose his beloved car in, it was worth it. A lake as blue as crystal, only rivalled by the sky above, the green woods and the cabin.

His grandfather's pickup was there, like it always seemed to. The old man was standing down by the small, homemade peer, looking out over the water. Obviously in deep thoughts. He turned around, and his eyes caught Nat. In a split second Nat felt some strange coldness. It didn't come from Oliver, although it had hit as his eyes did. But it passed as suddenly as it had arrived and Nat thought nothing more of it.

Oliver started up the slope, and Nat went to meet him. In the back of his mind he noted how the old man really had become an old man, only in the last three years. Nat seemed to remember him as much more athletic, not that much older than his dad. Now he was bent forward and everything seemed to make him pant.

"You're late," Oliver almost snapped. "I didn't know we were on a schedule." Nat was caught off guard, and the old man noticed. He smiled and patted his grandson on the shoulder. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. It's just such a shame to waste this wonderful day alone," he said, overdramatically. But he did steal a glance at his watch.

Nat had gotten a mail from Oliver that morning. It was on his computer when he woke up, and according to the history it had arrived at 03:46. He knew Oliver worked off hours, but he usually didn't mix up his own schedule and the rest of the world's. But then again, he was one of God's originals. The message was a request to come and see him, at the cabin, for some beer and fishing, and Nat wasn't one to let that type of offer pass.

Tow chairs and a small table, one of those you could fold to practically fit in your pocket, was placed on the narrow porch. Tow glasses had already started to gather drops of condensation, the golden liquid inside foaming vigorously around the rim. All the way on the other end; a cooling bag with ice and more beer.

Oliver picked up both glasses, looked at them for a second, and then gave one of them to Nat. "Bottoms up," he declared, and took a good sip.

"Gett´n right to it, hu?" Nat smiled, and gobbled down almost half, no way he was going to get out-drinked by an old, grey-heard man.

"This one's for you, son," Oliver almost whispered as he lower his glass.

Nat came up to breath; foam clinging to his upper lip like Magnum PI was back in. Tears rushed to his eyes, cold staked his throat and a strange tickle in the back of his neck was slowly drawing his attention. He coughed a second before he took another sip, more moderate.

A cool wind came rushing in from the eastern side of the lake, where the mountains let off and the lowlands began. But Nat barely felt it. That strange tickle was growing, and spreading. It reached his forehead, and nausea was suddenly all over him. "That one had a bit of a kick to it," he said and almost fell down into one of the chairs.

"That's the tranquillizer," he heard his grandfather explain before it all went black.

When Nat opened his eyes he was looking at a blurred image of his black t-shirt and blue jeans. His head was hung forward, chin resting on his chest. His mouth had at horrible taste, despite being dry as sandpaper. His ears where ringing and the splitting headache got his blurry vision to vibrate.

The stiff neck barely let him raise his head. It hurt like hell, but he wanted to know what was going on. Trying to move his arms he realised he was bound to the chair with nylon straps. So was his waist to the chair's backrest and his legs to it's. Slowly the inside of the cabin came into focus.

Through the bell-choir in his ears he picked up footsteps behind him. Oliver came into view. Nat looked up at him with his head tilted and his eyes pinching to protect him from the light. The old man held something in his hand. It looked like a shiny pistol, and suddenly Nat was afraid. As his eyes cleared he saw it wasn't, but the revelation didn't help. The thing his grandfather was holding was a lot scarier than a pistol.

It was one of those injection guns. All steel, tubes, needles and a black rubber grip. It even had a glass container sticking out of the top. Something red splashing inside it. Oliver was tinkering with the ting, flipping a switch. He didn't seem to have noticed that Nat had come to.

"What are you doing, gramps?" Nat was surprised by how hoarse he was. Oliver jumped back, his wide eyes locked on Nat before he turned around. Nat could hear him swallowing.

"Oliver, what's going on?"

"This is a very… special… substance," Oliver said, then turned around, his eyes on the red liquid. Nat saw he was scared, and caressed the gun seemingly for comfort, or reassurance.

"Gramps…?" Nat began, but Oliver cut him off. "This is only enough for one dosage. If I cut it, it won't work on any of us." He paused for a moment, then added, almost too silently for Nat to hear; "Besides, its better this way."

Nat swallowed. "Don't…" He didn't get any more out. Oliver removed the protection from a mean looking needle. He walked over to Nat's left, and it wasn't before now the kid noticed that his sleeve already had been rolled up.

"I could have set this when you were under, but it will be easier to understand this way," Oliver said.

"Understand what?" Nat's voice shivered. He began to understand what people meant with "the world coming crushing down around them".

Oliver put the needle to Nat's clear, purple artery. "No," Nat said. He planned to rip his arm away just in time, he thought maybe he had the room despite the restraints, but this injection gun didn't just look futuristic. Suddenly the needle had shot forward about a tenth of an inch, just piercing the skin and the artery, and in a hiss of escaping pressurised air the red – special – substance disappeared into his arm.

About two seconds later the pain kicked in. And, let's say, Nat forgot the headache. Like his arm was turning into stone, every cell felt like they were cramping up. He tightened every muscle he had, just to try to cushion the blow.

The pain spread to his entire left arm, and it froze up so he couldn't move it. But when it stopped, it eased off a little. Nat sighted relieved.

"It's going to hurt, more than it's doing now," Oliver warned, and Nat could swear he picked up concern in the old mans voice, though he couldn't fit it in to the rest of the picture.

The stoning began again, now its origin was his heart, and it was like it was pumped through his system with every beat. Nat's body jerked violently, and fought the solid restraints. Oliver was still standing over him, looking down on his grandson with tears swelling up in his eyes. A faint flapping noise appeared, and Oliver turned his attention to the roof. The sound of the approaching helicopter reached its zenith and began do disappear again. It hadn't even gotten close to the cabin.

Nat screamed. It felt like something had taken residence in his throat, it wanted out, and it wasn't of the kind type. His whole torso, midsection and thighs had gone hard as stone. How his heart managed to beat in that shell was beyond him, but it did beat, like a manic. His eyes went sideways, and caught Oliver's. His grandfather met his gaze. It was to be for the last time. "You will probably pass out again," Nat heard him say just before he passed out.

Nat regained consciousness, and the pain was so severe he didn't even notice that he was no longer tied to the chair, that he was in fact lying curled up on the floor. Best described as a hundred iron stakes sticking straight trough him, twisting and turning, Nat was simply waiting for it to pass, or kill him. He didn't have the strength to respond.

He had no idea how long he had been lying there, waiting. But the iron bars slowly stopped twisting, and eventually he regained the power to move. The solid wooden table was standing right beside him, so he grabbed the edge of it - with resolution written straight across his bloodshot eyes - and pulled him self up.

The first he saw was a piece of paper. It had a message written on it. Nat blinked several times, to focus and clear up his vision. It was all foggy. Slowly the words separated from the paper.

"Nathan, I'm sorry."

"There's little time. Take my pickup and head up the old forest-road. You know the one. If you're lucky they're not watching it. But don't take any chances. Stop the car by the old mill and walk from there. If it's clear, take the car, if it's not, find a way past on foot. Run as far as you can, and I'm talking deserts, elephants and tigers, if you have to. You'll understand later."

"What ever you do, don't go back to town. Not for anything!"

"PS: There's a little something for you in the cabinet. Listen carefully. Use any means necessarily to get out. Any, Nathan, any."

"Again, I hope you will find it to forgive me, Nat."

Either he was completely fucked up in his head, or the note didn't make any sense. He stood there hulked over the table and wanted nothing more than to throw up. It didn't happen. "Oliver!" he screamed, suddenly, even surprising him self. No one answered. The cabinet was placed up against a wall in the other end of the room, but before Nat got to take two steps towards it, the pain shot in a counterargument.

His knees slammed into the floor. The muscles on his back twitching, it felt like someone was melting his spinal cord with a plasma torch. Nerve endings popping like firecrackers all over the place. It wasn't until he woke up, cloths drenched in sweat, that he realised he had passed out again.

At least now he was so numb he barely felt anything. He was shaking like mad, and felt like someone had left his power tap open, but staying on the floor for a couple of minutes seemed to help. Lying there he realized that the light had changed. It was darker. The day had passed, but he couldn't remember if it had been this dark when he had read the letter.

Continuing on the rout he had began an unknown amount of time earlier, he got to the cabinet. This was probably the closest you could get to a safe, if you only had wood to work with. He opened the thick double doors to the shelves on the top, and saw ten cardboard boxes piled on top of each other.

On the shelf at the bottom he found a small, blue metal case. The black locks snapped open under Nat's fingers and two guns were reviled. They had a blue finish and lay in cut-out holes in the foam rubber lining the interior. Eight extra magazines where placed in holes next to them. Nat closed the lid again. "Colt 1911 Model No. 1" was imprinted in the metal.

At first glance the guns seemed perfectly ordinary. He picked one up and noticed that the barrel was wide enough to loose a finger in. Pulling the slide back he saw that the chamber was of considerable size too. Taking one of the boxes down he read; "cal. 50 GI". 50 rounds in each, he opened it and picked one up. The flat nosed fat little stub looked like it knew exactly what it had been made for.

Together with the metal case there were holsters for the guns and the extra clips. He checked the drawers under the shelves, but found nothing he could use.

"Jesus, gramps, what the hell are you planning for?"

Leaving the guns and the ammo in the cabinet Nat walked outside. "Oliver? Gramps?" He noticed that he wasn't angry anymore. That numb feeling had overshadowed almost everything, and now it just felt like being drunk, but without any of fun bits. His red -93 Subaru Justy was still facing down Oliver's silver -02 Dodge Ram 1500. It didn't look to be a fair fight.

"Ol…" Nat was about to call out again, when something appeared. It wasn't something physical, though it might as well have been. It was the sensation of burning against his skin. At this distance it was actually kind of nice, but it was coming closer, fast. He could see now how it would end, and as if that wasn't enough, the burning began inside him as well.

"What the hell have you given me?" Nat screams as fire burst in every cell. He was holding his hands up in front of himself, convinced that there must be something wrong with his eyes; he couldn't se the red-hot flames licking his fingers clean. Suddenly, only one thing occupied his mind, he galloped down the slope and fell face first into the ice cold water.

It was bliss. Pure ecstasy. Though the fire still burned him from the inside, the cold water made his skin feel like it was made of ice. He could have stayed down there forever. Realizing that he actually couldn't, and that he was drowning, he through his head up.

A couple of minutes later he was out of the lake, on dry land, and freezing in the cold, wet cloths. He had decided with himself not to complain when his now surprisingly clear eyes caught a glimpse of something up in the forest. It looked like a newly cut log hanging vertically about three feet in the air, with one end resting against a bigger tree.

Between the bigger tree, and another big tree 50 feet away - surly 20 feet in the air - another log had been suspend, and it was this log the smaller one was hanging from. Nat could barely make out the wires used to keep it up. But he thought he saw something else too. The colour of cloths was sticking out against the green and brown. And he thought he recognized them.

The whole instalment was angled away from him, so he had to get closer to see. But as he came up the hill and saw that there really was someone sitting up against the first big tree, on the side of the suspended log, a voice in his head screamed out not to go any further.

He ignored it, of course, and began to circle. The view that met him made him vomit immediately. Like his guts suddenly decided to spring clean. The log was resting in head height on the side of the stem where his grandfather also was resting.

As Nat tried to straighten himself out he noticed a thin rope resting in Oliver's limp right hand. It ran up into the other big tree, where it seemed to be connected to some homemade release mechanism.

Nat stumbled down the hill and came to a halt in the middle of the square. As though every trace of resolution had been striped from his mind he just stood there. Glancing out over the now almost black water. The sun was about to make the wooded hills surrounding him. He thought he heard a series of jet planes somewhere in the distance, but as soon as the sound was gone, they were out of his head.

Suddenly his right foot went to his left ankle and began to scratch. Nat got pulled out of his apathetic sinkhole by the sensation of ants crawling up his legs. They were in his shoes, under his socks and making there way up his calves. Bending down and pulling up the legs of his jeans he realised that they weren't actually there. Neither were there any ants under his socks. That's when they began to bite.

They seemed to bite through his skin and his flesh and began gnawing at his bones. And Nat's mind quickly upgraded them to termites. His sore throat started screaming again, now barely a hoarse whisper comparing to earlier in the day. He fell to his knees; scratching the imagined insects obviously not working.

By the time the ten thousand iron jaws had reached the bottom of his spine Nat was convinced that severing and getting rid of his upper body was the only thing for it. He was just going to have to learn to live without it. His intestines started to burn and his abdominals was spasming wild. He dropt to the ground and began flipping back and forth like a fish.

As the pain reached his head he thought his cranium would crack open. His brain was twitching and turning inside its hollow and his world picture was blurred in red, as if his eyes were bleeding internally. His ears were filled with the worst buzz he had ever heard, and both his mouth and nose with the sensation of blood.

Nat lay panting for a while after the pain had subsided, and even his hair had gotten a taste of the medicine. To his surprise he actually felt kind of good. Completely wasted, but good. It felt as though a filter had been driven through him, eating up or burning down any element that wasn't supposed to be there. But the utopia didn't last long. The memories of his grandfather and the injection creped up on him.

Sitting up he saw the dim contrast of the red and dark brown cotton shirt pinned lifeless to the tree stem. Rage swelled up. Uncontrollable. He wanted to hit something, anything, anybody. His fist cracked and his knuckles whitened. After a moment the initial fury passed, but he still wanted blood, except now he wanted to strangle the guy slowly and watch his eyes pop out.

Shaking he got to his feet. "What's in town? Why can't I go there?" he mumbled up to the elevated trunk. His thoughts rushed to the cabinet and the guns. There would be blood tonight, more than the world had ever seen. Nat swore it.

Each magazine held seven rounds and he had ten of them; the eight extra and the two already in the guns. He put it all in the holsters. In a back room, behind the living room, he found a bag which he stuffed the weapons and the ammo into before he went for the car, and set his sights on Raccoon City, his up-until-recent home.

7