Resident Evil and all of it's characters, locations, etc. belong to Capcom.

Between coming off of his adrenaline high and the speed of which he'd downed the wine, he could barely stand, so, he sat. The brick floor was cold and uncomfortable, and he could feel the chill through his uniform pants. The Beaujolais bottle was angled upright in his lap as he sat indian style, surveying the dimly lit office. The others would come and find him soon, but in his drunken state, he didn't much care. He'd come in looking for the key that would open the shutter to the stairwell that would, in turn, lead them to the roof, but after a somewhat brief search, Kevin had given up the search in favor of the unopened bottle of wine on the wooden desk in the corner of the room. After his close call in the 2nd floor stairwell, he didn't hesitate in uncorking the high end wine and downing damn near half of it in one glorious gulp. Now, he took the occasional sip, pacing himself. It was too late for that though, as whenever Kevin turned his head slightly to look around the room (still half-assedly searching for the shutter key) it would spin around him. But in a good way. If they were stuck here without a way out, at least they could drink themselves to death. Kevin would take that over being eaten any day of the week. He figured this was the end. It was hard to imagine this, whatever this was, being confined to Raccoon City alone. It was definitely wide spread, and in that case, the world as he knew it, was over. Which as far as he was concerned, wasn't so bad. He'd learned that there were worse things than death. At least in death, you could rest. Relax a little. Take the edge off. He could use the rest. He remembered, in the half-dark, on the cold, hard floor, as he sipped the wine he wouldn't have been able to afford a few hours before. He remembered sitting in a Spanish class at a community college in Philadelphia, a few years before his parents had died, and having a debate with his professor (which to Kevin, was ridiculous to have to refer to a community college level teacher as a "professor") over impending Armageddon. Kevin hated the class and thought it was pointless, and had always given the "professor" a hard time whenever he could. The professor, Curtis (Kevin was pretty sure he'd been called Professor Curtis) was keen to bring up political issues in class to incite discussion, something Kevin never had any interest in participating in. The discussion had turned to the modern day government and how reverting to the governmental system of old would solve a lot of problems, and in fact, how reverting everything to how it was in the beginning, and, in theory, starting over, would solve all problems. Curtis had described the current state of things as "muy, muy mal". But of course, to start over, the current cycle would have to end, and that would mean the end of them and everyone and everything they knew. Pretty heavy for a Spanish 102 class. Kevin had piped up saying that he wasn't in favor of the world ending any time soon. Curtis had asked him if had any wishes for his offspring to live peacefully and prosperously one day, to which Kevin replied that he didn't know of any offspring, and all he cared about was what he knew personally, himself and his family. How and why he was remembering this now, he had no clue. But in retrospect, Curtis had been right. Things were muy, muy mal. The crimes he'd seen committed as a cop, the murders, families backstabbing and swindling one another, children burned and bruised, prepubescent girls and old women raped. Things that were and had always been. There was no stopping it. What more could one do than drink and forget it? The more Kevin thought and the more he drank, he began to see that this was for the best. He realized that in the world as it was now, this would be the happiest he would ever feel again. It was all downhill from here. With that thought and the feelings of drunken ecstasy in mind, Kevin reached down to the holster on his hip, unbuckled it, and pulled his .45 free. Clicking off the safety, Kevin opened his mouth and stuck the gun inside, aimed upward, and pulled the trigger.

When the sound of the gunshot reached the ears of those searching in the wine room, they all looked at one another.

"What the hell was that?" asked George.

"It sounded like it came from the roof." answered Mark.

The door to the office opened and Kevin wandered out. Eyes squinted from the brightness of the wine room compared to the near-dark of the office.

"Did anyone else hear that?" he asked.

"Yeah. Sounded like shots fired up on the roof. That's a good sign. Let's find that shutter key." replied Mark.

"I'll give the office a once over again." answered Kevin.

Kevin re-entered the office and the door drifted shut with a click behind him. The gunshot had startled him from his revery, and if it had come from the roof, it was all the more reason to find that key. His .45 was still empty. The bottle of Beaujolais remained unopened on the desk in the corner. He couldn't help but look up at it as he sifted through the drawers of the desk again. He wondered what it tasted like. He'd had Beaujolais years ago, on someone else's tab of course, and had always wanted to try it again. With his gaze still transfixed on the bottle, he heard glass shatter behind him. Spinning around he saw a shattered bottle of Jack Daniels that had fallen from atop a large humidor. Suddenly, Kevin felt as if he was being watched. Looking around the small, dark room, he was reassured he was alone, but he felt even colder than he had a few minutes before. He hadn't noticed the Jack Daniels bottle before, but it must have just been a little too close to the edge of the humidor. The humidor which he hadn't bothered to look through. The only place he hadn't checked. Quickly opening the tiny door, he surveyed the four shelves inside. The bottom contained four cigar boxes with the lids torn off. Each was filled with cigars. The shelf above contained a large tool box. Kevin quickly pulled it out and dumped it's contents out on the floor. Screws, nuts bolts, screwdrivers, and several sized hammers, and a single, small, short key with a ring attached labeled "Roof". Bingo. Not the most likely place to store a key, but maybe that was the point? On the second shelf there was nothing, and on the top shelf laid a single, unopened box of .45 bullets. Quickly looking around the room to ensure he was alone, he tore open the box, spilling a few bullets on the floor.

"Shit!" he said to himself, looking around the tiny room again.

He placed the bullets one by one into the .45 until it was fully loaded. He placed the remaining rounds into the pouch on his belt. He replaced the .45 in it's holster, closed the humidor, picked up the shutter key, and exited the office.

"I found it!" he shouted.

"Really? That's great!" shouted Cindy, uncharacteristically excited.

"Yeah. Let's get a move on. Is everybody ready?"

"Hey, hang on a second." said Mark.

Kevin walked over to where Mark was crouched with Bob. The skin around the bite on Bob's neck had turned purple and black.

"Jesus." said Kevin.

"Yeah. George did what he could for him, but he said if we don't get him medical attention soon, we're gonna lose him. He said moving him was out of the question."

"Shit." Kevin looked over at George who was slumped down in the corner sulking. "Well, it's your call. What do you wanna do?"

"I'll stay here with him. You all go on ahead and find help. We'll wait here until you can send them back to get us."

"Look, we don't know what it's like out there. The TV's dead and the phone line's are down. That's not a good sign. Outside of getting him to a hospital ourselves, there's no help out there I don't think."

"Well, we can't just leave him here!"

Cindy looked over at them from across the room.

"Nobody said anything about leaving him here." said Kevin. "We're taking him with us. As long as he can walk with our help, we're not giving up on him."

"That's the thing. He's out cold. Has been since we got holed up in here."

David awoke to darkness. He was hanging upside down. All the blood was in his head. There was a horrible pain in his ribs. He hung there motionless for a few moments, before remembering the night's events in totality.

"Jul-Michelle!" he said aloud as he began to struggle with the seatbelt that was leaving him trapped upside down in the flipped van. He unbuckled it, and came down on top of his head with a crash. Laying motionless, he did a mental overview. His ribs were bruised at the very least. It felt like all of them. Maybe even a few broken. He looked over to the passenger's side and it was empty. Had Jim had his seatbelt on? The door, surprisingly, opened without trouble. The night was quiet. Far from the city, there were no lights around, although he was not exactly sure how far he was. He crawled from the van and turned onto his back, staring at the starry sky and breathing in the night air, an act alone that caused pain due to his ribs. He knew he was lucky to be alive. He moved his limbs, one by one, to ensure they all were still active. Hands, then arms, then legs, then feet. They were all still in tact and functional, if not sore. He struggled to his feet, then sunk down to his knees in pain.

"Michelle!"

Nothing.

"Jim!"

Silence and crickets.

Where the hell were they? Where the hell was he? He remembered driving for quite awhile, but just how far was fuzzy in his mind. He managed to stand and breathed deep once he had. His ribs felt like they were sticking out of his stomach, but on further inspection he found that they weren't. Something else to be grateful for. Taking a few steps further, he stumbled over something and fell to the ground again. The fall was soft, but the impact was hell on his ribs. Turning over gently, he found that he'd tripped over Jim. David checked his breathing. He wasn't. He'd broken his neck when he'd been thrown from the van.

"Goddammit." said David, a hand on the back of his fallen acquaintance.

He surveyed the area again. The woods were behind him, and the clearing he was in continued on before him.

"Micheeeeeeeeelle!" he vainly yelled again.

No reply. Then, he heard a rustle in the leaves behind him. The woods were many yards behind him, but he'd heard the noise just the same. Then, a feral growl. Then, a figure emerged from the wooded area. Slowly, the figure advanced towards David. A wolf, or a large dog. David was still shaken and dazed, but had enough sense to retreat from whatever was descending upon him. He crawled in pain and exhaustion back towards the van. He crawled inside and closed the door behind him. Looking out of the cracked window, he saw that the wolf dog had stopped feet from Jim's corpse. It was facing David, sniffing the air. It advanced slowly, stopping over Jim, before bending down and tearing into the dead man's neck. David looked away in disgust and horror. As he did, his eyes met those of Michelle in the back seat. She was not moving, but her eyes watched David all the same. After several moments, David concluded that she too was dead. Tears stung his eyes, and the pain in his ribs ceased to exist. As he looked back out of the window, he was face to face with the sneering, half-decomposed face of the dog that had stalked him. It furiously tried to bite at him through the cracked window. As it thrashed more and more, the cracks in the window grew wider. David shuffled backwards in the overturned van, and felt his back meet the driver's side door. The cracks in the window grew wider. Hanging down from the steering wheel was David's equipment bag. He struggled to untangle the straps, but couldn't. Finally, he unzipped the bag as it was, and various tools and items rained down on and around him. The window busted and the dog stuck it's head through. Jaws snapping, cutting itself on the broken glass, but not caring. Only wanting blood. David fumbled through the pile of miscellaneous equipment around him, and found the can of WD-40 he'd been looking for. Reaching into his pocket and silently praying simultaneously, he pulled out his gold Zippo lighter he'd been meaning to refuel. He'd had trouble lighting it for awhile now. The dog had squeezed it's large, rotten torso halfway through the window now and was snapping at David's boots. David flicked the wheel on the lighter. Once, twice, three times and no flame was produced. The dog squeezed it's hindlegs into the cramped cab and prepared itself to pounce. David flicked the wheel yet again and a tiny, beautiful flame shot out from the lighter. David positioned it in front of the can of WD-40 and sprayed. The makeshift flamethrower engulfed the decomposing hellhound in flames immediately, the hound emitting an unearthly simultaneous whine and howl. David dropped both the can and the lighter and reached behind him, searching for the handle on the driver's side door. His hands fell upon it, and at the same time, he kicked the flaming hound with both feet, the momentum sending him backwards out the now smoldering and smoking cab and out into the clear, crisp night air. He closed the door behind him and caught his breath on his hands and knees. The window provided a clear view of the half-rotten dog writhing in flames until the glass on the window shattered, and David stumbled backwards away. Luckily, the dog was dead.

David sat for several minutes, then thought of Mickey back at the motel. Thought of more hellhounds lurking out in the woods. He managed to get to his feet again, and the pain in his ribs returned. Searing, maybe even worse than before. He started to walk, slowly, but as fast as he could manage, away from the van that was now leaking a steady stream of smoke into the night air. Maybe it would get someone's attention. But he doubted it. He continued for some time in the clearing, finally struggling with a slight upslope. When he reached the top, he saw the lights of Raccoon City down below him. No more than two miles away.