Resident Evil : After Life is officially the bestest (yes, bestest) movie ever. If you haven't watched it yet, watch it. Nao. C:

BAHHHHH sorry for the long wait. DX
For lack of better words, this chapter was a complete bitch, and to be honest, I'm still not pleased with the way this one turned out. ; - ; Sorry if you come across any blaringly obvious grammatical errors or typos. The person who betas my story is always busy nowadays, and just doesn't have the time to proof read my chapters anymore. So, if anyone finds this chapter, you know, horrible, just mention it in a review and I'll be more than happy to take it down and further work on it. oAo

I had planned on getting this out by Friday, but things don't always go as planned, y'know. Anyhow, yes this is AU blah blah blah Dante wont be bagging groceries blah blah blah I don't want any flames blah blah blah OKAY NAO. :3

OH. OH OH OH. Thanks for the reviews guys. x3 I notice everyone is adding some type of warning to their chapters when necessary, and I feel like putting one too. Soooo, warning : gore.

-Feels accomplished-

I own nothing other than Megan, could that be any more obvious?


I think Dante's mad at me, but to be completely honest, I don't really care. It's not like it's my fault. He has the worst habit of running hot and cold, leaving me with more questions bubbling on my tongue than before. But then again, it's hard not to question him. He has just about the oddest searching methods, and his form of 'logic' really doesn't make any sense. Not being curious about them is nearly impossible. At least, I think so.

A bitter wind stings my cheeks, landing specks of white and black in my hair. I try to massage them out as I stuff my hands into the pockets of Dante's coat, walking stiffly in the ankle-deep snow. Now that I think of it, my feet are probably a lovely shade of blue by now. But I don't care. I'm used to colds and flus and fevers.

Dante swings his legs over the dark picket fence squaring the perimeter of the small field. He had hidden our cart in a bush, an obvious hiding spot for human, but impossible for an idiot such as a cannibal to locate. "What month is it?" I ask upon him reaching me.

I notice the gentle color of red tainting the tip of his nose. I make sure not to stare. "November," He says flatly.

I ignore his tone of voice, along with the way the slick snow is seeping into the small openings in my converse as I struggle to keep up with his quick strides. "Do you know the date?"

"Yeah, of course, 'cause I'm a walking calendar."

I swipe at my nose with the back of my hand. "Try?"

He sighs in irritation. "The...eleventh."

I fall silent with an, "Oh." dropping my gaze to my snow-covered shoes.

I find myself wondering if I'll ever wind up having to get my feet amputated when he finally asks, "Why?"

I hesitate for a moment. I know he doesn't care, but I glance up at him anyway. "My birthday was last month," I explain softly.

Dante says nothing more – I knew he wouldn't care. He slows his strides to a stop before crimson doors criss-crossed with white wood. They are ugly, covered with splinters and aged wood slightly grayed by the ash. I take in a gulp of dry air, ignoring the way it scraped my already sore throat. "The barn, really?" My voice cracks mid-sentence when Dante jams his sword into the small space between the two doors with his usual nonchalant attitude.

He doesn't reply, and forces the doors open with a grunt, carelessly stalking inside. I follow close behind, gripping onto the back of his dark sweater. He shrugs me off.

For a slit second, the split second I spent holding onto Dante, I thought I was blind. My vision had amounted to zero upon facing the pitch black must have been settled in this barn for so long, so accustomed to just...laying there, it had no choice but to struggle against the gray light that spilled in through the doors of the barn.

"So.." I hesitate, my voice echoing in the vast space. "What are you looking for?" I ask, nervously rubbing my arms.

Dante is silent for a moment, then shrugs and begins rummaging around the barn with the help of the light seeping into the vast shed. "For a..." I hear the sound of objects – my eyes not as advanced as his to know what – being shifted around, followed by the sight of an unusually colored gun, orange, being waved in the air by Dante's pale hand. "flare gun," He says finally.

I'm shaking my head when the sound of something corrupted with static – a voice, permeates from somewhere beside my sneakers. The voice sounds weird, like it's there but it's not there – like
listening to someone talk on a radio. Before I can stop myself, I'm on my knees, shifting my way through a pile of hay.

I look up to see Dante, face darkened with shadows, watching me carefully with an emotionless expression, then glance back down to see blue luminescent light seeping through random openings in the hay. My hands shift around for a few more seconds, taking something firm and cube-shaped into my grasp. Luminescent light emits from the screen, casting a blue light onto my knees as it's lifted from the pile. I flip it over and almost immediately become momentarily blinded. "Ugh," I groan. The object slips from my hands while I try to blink away dancing dots of color, doing my best to ignore the sound of Dante's snickers.

'YOU. WERE SUPPOSED TO EXPLODE. INTO A MILLION TINY PIECES,' I hear a cranky voice holler, followed by the sound of boots, Dante's boots, planting themselves beside me.

I'm giving my eyes a few final rubs when the wretched box is taken into Dante's grasp.

'Why would I do that?' Another voice says.

"Do you know what this is?" I hear Dante ask from beside me.

I hear the cranky voice saying, 'BECAUSE THE PIE YOU ATE. WAS A BOMB.' when I finally glance up at him, who's skin held a gentle glow from the screen. He grins at me for the first time in, well, for the first time, then refocuses his blue eyes on the object in his grasp. "It's called a T.V.. An extremely...ancient T.V.," He says when I don't reply.

I say nothing, allowing my line of sight to stray over his shoulder, trying to adjust to the darkness of the room. My head lay lazily in my hand as I try to blink away the stubborn dots of blue and white and green as they twirl around my vision, trying make out outlines of objects. Something catches my eye in the far east of the room, and in seconds I'm stumbling over myself trying to figure out what the hell it is. There are one, no two objects laying silent and lifelessly against a wall to the far east of the room, completely shrouded in the shadow fought off into the corners. I don't even notice I'm tugging on cloth of Dante's jeans until he mutters, "What?"

I nod my head over too where I'm looking, and he turns, his gaze shifting over to my line of sight.

Dante flips the screen over with ease in his right hand, and, as if it were a flashlight, he aims the screen in the direction of the objects. Almost immediately, I groan, planting my face into the jean of his pants. Hanging from a wooden beam against the wall is an elderly couple, their faces bright blue, their arms dangling lifelessly by their sides. Around their crooked necks is a thick rope. "Holy fucking..." I hear Dante say, and on instinct my eyes snap over to meet his line of sight. "Don't look," He says.

Too late. The bluish light of the T.V. is illuminating their bodies that extended down to their waist, ending exactly there. Hanging from their waist in a bloody, disoriented mess were their intestine and stomach and rest of their insides, darkened with time and temperature and parasites. Their torso's are not bare, but I can see the criss-crosses of torn cloth and flesh, each wound covered with blood browned with age. "My god, these people," Dante's voice struggles to stay steady as the blue light dips lower, illuminating the ground at their feet, which is clattered with various knives dirtied with blood. The couples blood.

Almost instantly I hear a soft thud as the T.V. is dropped to the ground, it's gentle glow illuminating the icy hay, followed by the feeling of Dante's hand swallowing mine, tugging me towards the exit in which we came.

We're at the foot of the doors and the gray sky suddenly seemed a bit too bight at the foot of the exit – like criminals caught in the dead center of security lights. I shield my eyes with a shaking hand, then lower it to see a truck crashing through the picket fence, sending random pieces of brown wood across the snow. Feeling seeps from my legs again as I stand there, as we stand there, watching as cannibals pull into view.

My body is completely numb when Dante tugs at my hand again – harder this time, rushing towards the exit on the other side of the barn. There are too many of them. Knowing Dante, he could only handle so much. And a truck as large as that filled to the brim with cannibals along with a vulnerable female such as myself in plain sight was not one of them.

My feet are colliding with the ground again, my puny hand shaking in Dante's as he shoves open the other set of large doors open, obviously relieved not to see another another truck-full of cannibals parked in our view again.

My heart is in my throat as we run, too terrified to glance behind me. I struggle to keep up with Dante as we speed towards the snow-covered forest that seems so far away. My feet choose to resemble cement in the worst of times – lifting them from the bitter snow becomes a challenge in itself. My chest aches with every intake of icy air when we finally settle behind a tree with bark darkened with the bitter cold and ash.

Then I hear pants, not mine, nor Dante's. The breaths are shorter, softer. One appropriate for a child.

I peek around the tree, only to see a little boy, no older than seven, being chased by the cannibals – the monsters. He looks pained and is holding his side. His limp is obvious, and so is the fact that his small body will give out on him soon.

Dante is already on his feet, yanking me up onto mine by the back of my collar, like a child would to it's kitten, preparing for another wretched dash. But suddenly the boy isn't on the ground anymore, and is instead dangling helplessly upside down with a rope secured around his ankle.

I watch in horror as he struggles to no avail, his every cry striking a deeper cord inside of me. My stomach twists into knots upon seeing the cannibals encircle him – their prey, with their usual swagger.

My eyes fly over to Dante. "You need to help them," I hiss.

He gives me a look, obviously questioning my sanity. "I don't think so." He tugs on my arm again, but I smack it away, holding my ground.

"Help him, Dante."

"He could be infected."

"And if he's not?"

Dante just stares at me as if I'm the biggest idiot on the face of the earth. My brown eyes fly over to the small boy, watching as they sliced through the rope with a single swipe of a blade, laughing at the child as he fell head first into the snow. His puny arms are bound behind his back, his chest heaving. I feel tears of frustration stinging my eyes. "Please?"

A tall, balding man shoves his way through the crowd, his shining head criss-crossed with lavender veins. "We'll make you a deal, little man." He voice is deep and smooth but his movements are not. He tosses a pocket knife into the air, catching it, but barely. "You gauge out your eyes, we leave you alone."

I watch as his lips twist into a smile, his teeth black and in desperate need of cleansing. I swallow the lump raising in my throat – never have I felt this useless. I look away from the boy and up at Dante, giving him the most pleading look I can manage through eyes blurry with tears.

Dante stiffens, eyes shifting back and forth between the forest and the child. "Are you-" He doesn't finish, grabbing fistfuls of hair. Dante and I both wince as a ground breaking scream erupts from the boy, followed by a fit of cries. Neither I nor Dante look at the child. We don't need to look to know he is in agony, to know his face is caked with crimson. I feel something building up inside me, raising higher and higher until I feel it peaking into my throat.

At first I think I'm about to vomit, but the strange pressure peaks higher - into my head, only to escape as a useless tear. I try and swipe it away, before Dante could see, but more wetness slides down my cheeks, plopping down onto the leather of Dante's coat. I raise my knees, wrapping my shaking arms around them. Dante's coat quickly becomes slippery with tears as he attempts to console me. I shove him off.

He swears.

The cold bites at my shoulder as the coat slides down my arm. I remain motionless, immobile to Dante and the world aside my from clenching fists. Maybe if I don't move for a long enough period of time, I can trick him into thinking this is some sort of threat. A threat that I'll never move again, I'll just freeze and die here, if he doesn't do anything. Maybe I will.

My plan fails when I jump at the sound of gunfire. I glance up, but Dante isn't there. A feeling of relief creeps into my chest. So much, I can almost ignore the sounds of agony ripping through the cannibal's throats. I swipe away tears with the back of my hands, peeking around the bark just in time to see one of their heads being detached, their dark blood drenching Dante's sword.

"...his form of 'logic'

really doesn't make any sense."

Dante tears a strip of cloth from his undershirt, tying it securely around the little boy's head and eye. I'm holding him in my arms, the child, soothingly running my fingers through his black hair. His still sobbing, and his left eye is bleeding profusely. I'm still furious at Dante for not saving him sooner. If he would have helped the child when I first asked him to as opposed to standing beside me like an idiot, this wouldn't have happened. I don't let it show, though. Taking down that many cannibals isn't something I would want to do either.

When the child's sobs finally cease, I release him, smoothing back his soft hair. I ease him off of me, reaching out my arms and attacking Dante in a hug. His arms are outstretched in an awkward position, as if questioning what to do next. "Thanks." I mutter into his shoulder in lack of better words.

His arms don't close in on my frame. Whatever, it's a start.

"What's your name, kid?" Dante asks, then quickly pushes me off of him.

I quickly shake off the sudden rejection, and crane my neck to face the boy when he doesn't reply. "I don't know." He says finally.

"You don't know your own name?" I say, tapping my chin. "Well..we'll call you..."

"Gordon!" Dante offers.

"Ew." I grimace at him. "Gordon is a horrible name. What about Brandon?" I offer, my eyes connecting with the small boy's gray one.

"How could you call a name like Gordon horrible and then offer a name like that?" Dante stands, gripping the icy handle of our cart. "How about...Felix. Xavier? No, Carlo!"

I help the boy up, giving Dante a stare. "..You mean Carlos."

"No. Carlo."

"Dante, what kind of name is Carlo?"

"A cool one."

"...I like Carlo," The boy says.

"Your name will not be Carlo." I say through gritted teeth, lifting him and placing him down gently in my reserved spot of the cart.

"He wants to be named Carlo."

"We aren't naming him Carlo." I whine.

"All in favor of naming the child Carlo." The boy's hand shoots into the air, followed by Dante's.


When my Dad was still around, he would tell me stories about how things used to be, filling me with hopes of better days and better people. I hate him for it. Not a single word he said brought back one of my friends from their graves. Not a word he said made the sun peak out from behind the clouds, completing it's seven year rest. Not a word raised the temperature, not even a degree. Not a word cleared the ash. Not a word cured them. Not a word made things better, made people better.

What it did was make me wait days on end for the sun, the sun that would never arise from it's sleep, to shoot it's yellow rays across the sky, making it blue again. It made me believe that people would be good again, and stop tearing one another apart. It made me believe there was hope. Well there isn't any.

I remember the way my blood boiled upon staring down at Dad's corpse through the thin light of the kitchen candle, a bullet landed firmly in his forehead. I remember the days I spent laying by his body, his unmoving body, thinking he'll wake up, because he made me believe in things like that. He had given me so much hope, told me so many lies, making me believe that someone can actually come back after dieing. How stupid of me.

My eyes slide open to stare at an orange fire as it rages and licks at the crisp air a mere foot away from my current position. I prop myself up on my elbow and poke it with a stick.

I hear a soft click, and glance up to see Dante sitting cross-legged on the icy grass, mingling with a silver revolver. It wasn't easy – finding this place, I mean. Any clear, flat area we found was either covered with massive sheets of white, had a huge fucking downward slope that would have us waking up to tumbling into a river bank, or out in the open just begging for us to be eaten in our sleep.

To make matters worse, Carlo's eye kept bleeding, which was also a time consuming burden. Every few minutes, Dante would have to remove the strip of clothing covering his empty eye socket drenched in crimson, only to replace it with another strip that would have to be tossed aside and replaced in soon time.

Even now, his eye is still bleeding. Carlo's head lay delicately on his dark jacket, his chest rising and falling with a solid rhythm, his right hand cupping his missing eye even in his sleep. He's a tough kid, to say the least. Even with the trauma of losing an eye, the kid still carries the will to keep going, to keep living.

I feel the urge to dab at his bleeding eye, then suppress it. I'm too afraid to hurt him.

I don't as much as flinch when something nudges me, and turn only to see a can of Dole staring me in the face. "Want some?" Dante's familiar voice asks from behind the can.

I shake my head no. "Remember what happened last time you offered me something to drink?" I ask flatly.

I hear him chuckle, then look up to see solid silver staring me in the face. At first I think he is aiming the gun at me, just as he had the first time we met. But his finger is nowhere near the trigger now, and Dante's expression isn't one of intimidation. "Take it," He says when I remain immobile.

I obey, taking the weapon into my hand with difficulty. It feels uncomfortable against my palm, and it's surprisingly heavy weight catches me off guard. I set it on the grass, rejecting it. "I know nothing about those things, let alone know how to shoot one," I say in a bland tone.

"You don't need to," Dante says, taking the revolver into his hand, and scooting over to me. "All you need is fear, courage, and fingers."

I give him a stare. "What?"

He shifts the gun into his left hand, opens my mouth with the right, and places the tip of the barrel inside. He suddenly tips the gun back in a quick motion, imitating gunfire. He places the gun back on the slick grass. "I'm not always going to be there to protect you, Megan."

'And when you're not, you want me to kill myself?' I think bitterly. Despite my thoughts, I curl my legs up to my chest, watching as the darkness of the night slowly fades into a lighter shade of gray. It will be morning soon.

"I'm doing this out of...," He stops for a second, but doesn't finish. Instead he says,"I don't want you to be ripped to shreds alive."

I grunt in understanding, resting my cheek against my knees.


Wow. This chapter is a lot longer than I expected it to be. -_-''