The screams were clearer, as were the faces. His father yelling. His mother crying, holding Bruce closely. His father pull out his revolver.
It had been a bad night. They had been coming home from a meal, the three of them. Bruce had been holding his mother's hand, his father grinning with glee at his side. They were joking and laughing, his father telling him stories about times when he and his mother had been courting and something funny had happened. He was laughing with them, the warmth of their love keeping him immune from the cold night.
Then it had happened. From out of the blue, twelve men dressed in black coats and wearing baraclavas had jumped out at them, all armed with guns. They shouted, ordering his parents to give them everything they had, including what Bruce had had.
His mother hugged Bruce tightly, crying. His father threatened the men, and whipped out his revolver. Before his father could move, the cold hearted bastards filled him with bullets, his dying screams causing Bruce to cry in fear.
The men approached he and his mother, pulling them apart from each other. One of the men pulled off his baraclava and kissed his mother, only to receive a bite into his lower lip. The man cursed, hit her and blown a hole through her head.
Bruce had screamed, struggling as the other man holding him pinned him to the floor and kicked him in his face, knocking him out cold. When he had woken up, he was still in the alley, next to his dead parents. Their wallets and valuables had been stolen, but most of all their lives. Bruce had not left their sides for twelve hours, endlessly howling in tears. He swore revenge, cursing the men, hoping to hurt them back.
He never did get the chance of revenge, and that is why the nightmares haunted him.
Bruce rose his head quickly, feeling it throb harshly. He studied his surroundings, and sighed with relief. He was still in the cells room. They had left him.
The sound of moans hurt his head, and Bruce stumbled out of the room, holding his forehead in pain. He had quite a bruise.
Cal!
The very name made Bruce look around. Cal had been here when they had attacked, and had been knocked out. He was not in the cell he had been kicked in. Feeling frightened for the man, Bruce ran out of the room, and heard a groan of sorrow.
Picking up the pace, he ran inside a room that he was supposed to enter, and on the floor was Cal, kneeling in front of fifteen dead people.
"They killed them," he muttered to Bruce, not turning to face him, staring at the bodies. "They left us alone and killed them. Those bastards just slaughtered them!"
Bruce lowered his head. "I"m sorry for your loss." A sudden thought dawned on him. If they did not take him, who did they take? "Misty! Have you seen a girl around? She is wearing a half tee, red trainers and jeans."
"The girl you are on about is not here. Those men who attacked us must have taken her away," he sighed, still watching the bodies, and started stroking the hair of a young boy around seven years old. "How could they do this? Kill so many innocents and feel no shame or mercy?"
Bruce placed his hand gently on his shoulder. "I need your help. Please, can you help me get my friend?"
Cal did not move, or say anything for a while. When he spoke, it was full of defeat. "Please, I need some time with the people I considered family for the last few days."
Bruce nodded. It was official. Cal was no use right now, and forcing him was just cruel. The man lost many people who he had protected and loved, and he wanted to mourn them.
Slowly taking his hand off him, Bruce walked out the door, and sighed as he heard the quiet sobs of Cal as he left.

Misty opened her eyes, and tried to move. She was tied up, and restrained tightly to a wooden chair.
"Perfect," she cursed, and looked around.
The room was dark, only a few candles around to light up the room. The room was huge, and had very little decoration. Next to her were two chairs with a person in each one. There were other chairs, nine in total including hers. Every chair contained a person, most zombified other than the two next to her. In front of her was a giant gothic statue of a woman holding a sword pointing downwards. The woman's face was cruel looking, and very royal.
She tried struggling again, only to hear a voice next to her.
"Don't bother," the voice replied. "You are as doomed as I am!"
Misty turned her head, and muttered a curse as she saw the face of the psycho from the hospital, Alyssa.
"What are you doing here?" Misty snarled.
Alyssa looked at her, and raised an eyebrow. "Believe me, I wasn't planning for this, especially being tied up on here. I was hoping to watch you die, not die with you."
Misty growled. "Bitch! You deserve to die, and I am glad you lured us in, because now you are going to get what you deserve!"
"Yes," Alyssa smirked. "But so are you!"
"Be quiet, please," another voice begged the other side of Misty. "I am thinking."
Misty turned to look, and saw a man. He was a thin man, and only two inches taller than her. He had dusty brown hair, and wore a white shirt and a red tie. His trousers were brown and had small rips on the legs, and his shoes were black and muddy.
"Who are you?" Misty asked. "Another researcher?"
The man looked at her insulted. "Hell no! I am a reporter, and I was going to bring down Umbrella with this report."
"Wait," Misty replied, making a connection in her mind. "Is your name Baker?"
The man looked at her hopefully. "Yes, yes it is. How do you know my name?"
Misty smiled. "I know it because there is a fellow reporter looking for you. His name is Bruce Campbell. His copter crashed."
Baker's face shone with hope. "Bruce! Is he okay? How is he?"
"As far as I know, he is okay," she replied. "The cultist guys don't have him, so I suppose he got away. The question is, will he find us in time?"
Alyssa laughed. "That I would love to see! Your little friend will be killed instantly."
"Shut up!" Misty snapped, and turned to Baker again. "If he can find us, which I believe he will, he can get us out of here. All of us."
"Oh joy," Alyssa giggled. "I can"t wait."
Misty ignored her, and looked up at the ceiling.
"Please, Bruce," she whispered. "Help us."