One week earlier…

Rrrrrring!

Chris' eyes cracked open, taking a moment to focus on the blurry, red numbers illuminating the front of his alarm clock. 2:00.

Rrrrrring!

The phone rang again. Who could possibly be calling him at this time? He grunted groggily and reached for the handset, bringing it to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Chris! Chris, is that you?" replied a borderline frantic voice.

"Yeah. Who the hell is this? It's two in the morning," Chris growled.

"It's Billy Rabitson. God, I'm glad I got ahold of you."

Chris was fully awake now. Billy had been one of his best friends in high school back in upstate New York, but the two hadn't talked more than a few times since. Between Billy's budding career in biochemistry and Chris' stint in the Air Force, there just hadn't been much time. One thing that Chris knew was that his friend didn't just get panicky for any reason. That and the fact that Billy was supposed to be charred to a crisp in a plane crash months ago was cause enough for alarm. Chris had even been at the funeral, seen the casket, the whole nine yards.

"Listen buddy, if you're pranking me…" he warned, brow furrowed, trying to determine if it was actually his friend or just some sicko with a twisted sense of humor.

The voice replied, "Dude, this isn't a prank. I'm about to be in a world of hurt if you don't help me."

Yep. Definitely Billy's voice. "Why don't you start with the part where you aren't dead. Because I seem to be a little behind the curve on that one."

"No time. I need to meet you, right now. Something huge has happened, something terrible, and now they're after me. I found out some stuff I shouldn't have."

Chris rubbed his temples and reached for the water bottle he kept by his bed, tucking the phone into his shoulder. "They? What kind of stuff?"

"Stuff that's going to blow that cannibal case you're working on out of the water."

What in the hell could Billy possibly know about that?

As if he had anticipated Chris' question, Billy continued, "You remember how I started working for the Umbrella Corporation last year?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, all I can say now is that the plane crash was staged by them, and I found evidence that makes it seem like they have something going on at the old Spencer mansion up in the Arklays that might link back to the case. Whatever it is, it's definitely illegal and definitely dangerous for me to know. But there isn't much time. How soon can you get to the old diner on the edge of town?"

"Emmy's? Twenty minutes, ten if I really push it." He took a swig of the slightly warm water, then started pulling on the rumpled pair of jeans he had been wearing the day before.

"Well, hurry. I don't think I have much time before they find me. Please, Chris. Hurry."

There was a click on the other end as Billy hung up. Chris stood and slipped on a pair of sneakers, then loaded his .45 and tucked it into the back of his pants. He rushed out the door and down a set of concrete steps to the parking lot, not wanting to let his friend down.

As Chris hopped into his car, he wondered how Umbrella could possibly have anything to do with the crazy murders going on as of late. Even beyond the apparent absurdity of a connection between the two, they hadn't so much as found a scrap of evidence pointing in that direction either. He floored the gas as he entered the main roadway, and the 400 horsepower engine roared as Chris was pushed back in the Mustang's seat. Luckily, as he expected, there were only a handful of cars out at this time of morning. Except for a couple bars, most businesses were closed. Their dark windows rushed past in a blur. He swerved to pass a slow-moving semi-truck then locked the brakes to make a screeching turn onto Crescent Street. Emmy's 24-Hour Diner was a short ways ahead.

Emmy's was a typical greasy spoon that seemed like it had been borrowed straight from the 1950s, usually playing host to at least a couple truckers in need of a coffee break, or farmers from the surrounding area getting some breakfast and looking to chew the fat before a long day of work. Multi-colored neon glared from signs in the windows, only adding to its retro feel. Over his short time living in Raccoon Chris had become a regular, and a few familiar, tired faces nodded a welcome as jangling bells announced his entrance. He looked around, but saw no sign of Billy. Checking his watch, he confirmed that he was right on time.

A pink-clad waitress, Elza if memory served, looked up from the table she was wiping off. "Oh, hey Chris," she greeted. "You're out later than usual."

He ran a hand over his face, hoping Billy was just late for whatever reason. "Yeah… I'm trying to find someone. I'm supposed to be meeting them right about now."

Elza nodded. "Well, there was someone here just a couple minutes ago, said that you would be showing up and if he left before you got here that I was to pass along a note. He seemed pretty nervous. Here, let me get the message for you."

She dashed off to the kitchen, returning a moment later with a small scrap of yellow paper folded in half. Chris quickly unfolded it.

Scribbled messily in pen was a drawing of a shovel.

"Did he say what it means?"

Elza shook her head. "No, just that you were the only one who'd figure it out."

Chris puzzled over it for a moment. What's something only he and I would know?

Then it hit him. "Thanks Elza. I'll see you later." He dashed for the door.

"Alright," she said, sounding a little confused. "Bye."

The Mustang screeched out of its parking spot, tearing back onto the road.

When Chris and Billy had been kids, they both had been really into the idea of being secret agents. Figuring they needed a code, Billy had suggested that they use small, simple drawings – hieroglyphs, he had called them - to represent different things and places. The shovel had represented the maintenance shed at the nearby city park.

Chris headed north, hoping to make it to Raccoon Park in time.

Adrenaline was now surging through his veins, and when he got there, he practically flung himself out of the car and began sprinting for the run-down shed. The far-too-narrow beam of his flashlight swept erratically across the base of the treeline. Drawing up on the shed, he pulled out the .45 and racked a round into the chamber as quietly as he could manage. The door was already slightly ajar, and he gently shouldered it open, cautiously moving in as he kept the light and gun raised.

No one else was there, but the haphazardly scattered tools and scuff marks in the dust on the floor told Chris there had been a struggle. He briefly contemplated calling for backup, but what would he tell them? His friend was back from the dead, Umbrella was covering up some major secret, and said friend had just disappeared again without a trace – and the only evidence he had was a drawing of a shovel on some scrap paper and a messy park maintenance shed? At best he'd just get laughed at and told he needed a vacation. No, he was definitely on his own for this one.

Then something caught his eye. The corner of a yellow folder stuck out from underneath a shelf. Hoping it may be a clue as to what Billy was hoping to tell him, Chris grabbed it and carefully undid the string holding it shut.

Inside was a thick stack of papers and half a dozen compact disks inside plastic sheaths. Atop the documents was a smaller envelope, containing a hand-written note and what Chris recognized as Billy's class ring. The note read:

Chris,

If you're reading this, they've probably found me. In fact, I'm probably dead, so don't bother looking for me any more. God I must sound like a paranoid freak. The data I've left in this folder is all I managed to get from Umbrella's servers. Use it wisely. Don't turn it over to the police, or anyone, they'll just make it disappear. I'm sorry to dump all this on you right now, and that we didn't get a chance to talk again. It's been too long, and now I'm afraid too late. I wish you luck, and keep yourself safe. The less people who know you have this the better.

Your friend, Billy