Chapter Twelve— Possessed

The world was spinning, and he was far above the ground, flying through the air. It did not take him long to realize where he was at. He was above Raccoon City. Some of the buildings he did not recognize, but it was hard to misplace the living dead that crowded the streets.

He looked down and saw an army of soldiers marching. They were moving south, towards the zombie filled streets. Terry watched with interest as they opened fire. The zombies moved forward, acting as if they did not even feel the bullets. Terry watched with horror and amazement as the zombies marched up to the soldiers. No matter what the army did, not one zombie would fall. Even the ones who had their heads blown off still staggered forward. A quick thinking soldier threw a hand grenade into the midst of the undead, scattering them in a vicious explosion. Terry watched with horror as each and every bits and pieces of the blown apart zombies continued to move on their own freewill. Hands, legs, and other body appendages continued to crawl forward.

He watched far above the battlefield as the zombies reached the soldiers. The zombies did not tear into the soldiers as he had been expecting. Instead, they calmly placed their hands on the shoulders of the men in combat fatigues and just stood there. He watched with horror as the soldiers' faces began to rot. Skin and patches of hair fell off in clumps, and Terry was close enough to see their eyes change from the lively shades of brown, green, and blue to the dull blankness of white. It was as if the creature's touch was all it took to corrupt the soul and body of a man.

The infection spread. The front line turned into the creatures, and so did the next line, and the next. He watched the infection spread through them like a wave. It reminded him of the ripples created from a tiny pebble being cast into a pool of water. One stone was all it took to disrupt the water's peaceful surface.

The very last of the soldiers changed. There was a brief moment of silence before each and every zombie on the street (including the newly obtained recruits) reared back their heads and moaned. It was like they were one being, a giant entity devoted to destruction and chaos. The hollow, soulless tone carried into the night air and rang loudly. Terry had to cover his ears because the noise was so loud.

Then he was carried away again.

When he stopped this time, he was right outside the hotel. He looked down to see a familiar scenario. It was him and the others fighting for their very lives against the clawed demons. They were outside the hotel. They were running for the open kitchen door. When they reached it, Terry slammed the door shut behind him, leaving Zack trapped outside. The singer pounded on the door, sobbing and begging to be let in, yet no one opened the door. He had been abandoned.

One of the demons leapt onto him then, pulling him to the ground. Terry closed his eyes as the rest of the pack descended upon him, pulling him apart limb from limb. Though his eyes were closed, he could still hear the gnashing of teeth and claws, the ripping of flesh being torn from bone, and the screams of his dying friend.

"No!" Terry screamed. "That's not what happened! We didn't abandon him!"

No one listened. There was only him and the creatures below.

Suddenly, the noises stopped. Confused, Terry opened his eyes. He was now inside the hotel. He looked around and realized he was in one of the hallways. He walked forward, for there was nothing else he could do. As he moved, he tried opening the doors on the side, but they were all locked. Every single one of them.

He got to the end of the hallway and turned the corner, coming face to face with his own self. Standing in the middle of the hallway was a clone of himself— how could it not be, the resemblance was uncanny. It looked just like him, except for one key difference, this Terry was a zombie. His clothes were torn and tattered, and they hung loosely on his giant frame. The scratch marks on his chest had begun bleeding again, and the crimson fluid flowed down from his chest to his shoes.

"No," Terry said, moaning deep in his throat. "You can't be here. You don't exist."

The apparition just smiled as if saying, "I can, and I do." Terry wondered why it was smiling. What was it (he) so happy about? It began shuffling forward, and Terry saw that behind it there was only blackness. As it moved forward, the hallway behind it began to peel away, changing into complete darkness.

Terry raised his handgun and pointed it at the approaching figure. He fired a shot directly into the thing's (his own) head. Its head snapped back from whiplash, yet it kept moving forward. It brought its head back up, still smiling. There was a bullet hole in the creature's head, right between the eyes. Blood poured from the wound like tears from an eye; it poured down the middle of his face right down to his chin.

Terry uttered another horror filled moan from deep within his throat. "No, you're dead. You're supposed to stay dead when I shoot you in the head."

The undead version of him said nothing; it only smiled back in that same lunatic way. It moved right up to him, stopping when its face was only inches from his own. Terry saw behind it, and he looked over his own shoulder as well. There was only darkness there. The hotel hallway had disappeared. He and his doppelganger were stuck together in a sea of darkness.

"Why won't you die?" Terry asked the apparition.

The creature kept smiling. It inched its head forward till its mouth was next to Terry's ear. "Because I'm you," the thing whispered, and although Terry could not see it, he knew it was smiling. It was always fucking smiling. "I am what you will be. There's no denying that." It (Terry) uttered a short chuckle before sinking its (his) teeth into Terry's neck.

He cried in pain as the shadows enveloped him, shrouding his vision with infinite black.

xXxXx

He woke up in a cold sweat. In his sleep, he had kicked the cover from his bed and they lay strewn about in a pile at the foot of his bed. He had no idea how long he had been out, but it did not matter. Right now, he just wanted to get out of this bed.

What was I dreaming about? Terry thought. He could not remember, but he knew it was enough to scare the piss out of him. He had not had a nightmare in God-only-knew how long. Just shows what living in this hellhole can do to you.

Tentatively, he swung his feet off the side of the bed. So far so good. He gently set his feet on the ground and stood up. There was a jolt of pain that shot up from his chest and ended in his head, but he was not deterred. He could not stand to lie in that bed for any longer. Besides, he was starting to feel a little better, and he could handle just walking outside to see what was going on.

Before leaving, he grabbed his handgun from the nightstand. He left the shotgun where it was. Hopefully, he would not need it anyway. He walked slowly towards the door on stiff legs. When he got to the door, he had enough time to think that it might not have been such a good idea to get out of bed before he opened the door and stepped out into the hall.

He moved slowly down the hall, using the wall to keep himself propped up. His vision started to double, and Terry realized that it was definitely a bad idea to leave the bed. He was in no condition to be going anywhere. He meant to turn around, but the world was starting to pivot on its own axis, and Terry went along for the ride.

He collapsed to the ground, trying to center himself. He lay there on the floor, on all fours for what seemed like an eternity (even though it was only a matter of minutes). Finally, the world slowed itself down, and Terry could stand back up. When he did so, he saw that he had just about reached the elevator. Suddenly, he remembered the blood on it, and his stomach filled with nausea, yet it also began to rumble at the thought of the crimson liquid. This strange paradox made him wonder how such a feeling was even possible and if he was just imaging it from his delirium. Either way, it brought him closer to the elevator. Slowly and methodically, he plodded his way towards the elevator. The closer he got, the hungrier he got, the sicker he got.

With his stomach growling, his mind began to drift. He thought about the picnics he and his family used to have. He would have his arms around Mary's shoulders, smiling happily and watching John and Jacob wrestling in the soft, fresh grass. Those had been the times. He could still smell the sweet scent of the place. It was an Eden of sorts in his mind. He thought of the delicious pie— never the same flavor— Mary would always bring. He always had loved guessing the flavor, and he had never been right. Though, each one had been just as delicious as the first— maybe even more so. He thought of how they would stay there until the sunset, watching its majestic beauty as a family.

His mind snapped itself back to reality, and before he knew it, he was standing in front of the elevator doors, staring at the blood with wicked fascination. The thoughts had returned, much more potent this time around, and before he knew it, he was reaching out towards the blood without even realizing it. He stopped himself by punching the UP arrow on the side. With a ring, the doors slid open, hiding the blood from his sight. He breathed a sigh of relief, but he also grunted with dissatisfaction.

Never had Terry felt so disjointed from himself. He was divided into two— one side being the Terry still appalled at the thought of blood and the other, more vile side of Terry that relished in its gore. Every time he managed to pull himself away from the more depraved side, his mind cheered and jeered. It was not much unlike the shows he had seen before where a devil appeared on one shoulder of a character and an angel on the other. The only difference being, he was not seeing demons nor angels. There was only Terry and Terry.

He stepped into the elevator, sighing with relief (hissing with frustration) that the blood would no longer be there to torment him. He pressed the second floor button and felt the elevator shift as it began its ascension. He leaned against the side of the elevator, closing his eyes in an attempt to clear his thoughts.

It did not work.

Soon, Terry, a voice whispered. You know its coming. You can't stop yourself from changing. You know that.

"Yeah," Terry whispered aloud. "But I can at least separate myself from the others."

Do you really think that will do any good? They'll look for you, and they'll find you. This hotel isn't that big. And what do you think they're going to find when they come across poor infected Terry? The voice uttered a hollow laugh, and Terry was starting to get fearful. He had realized he had been arguing with his own conscience, yet he hadn't been expecting that laugh. It was like it was another person inside his own head. He thought about the two Terry's he had thought of earlier, and he wondered if the virus had affected him mentally, turning him schizophrenic.

Nope, that voice whispered. You're not crazy. This is just the way you are, or maybe the way you're going to be. You know it. You know what you're going to be, so why do you fight it?

"Just shut up," Terry muttered quietly. "I don't wan to listen to you anymore. Just shut up."

Miraculously, the voice did, but Terry knew that wasn't the end of it.

The doors slid open, and he stepped out. He took a couple glances left and right. Seeing nothing of immediate interest, he walked back into the elevator, making sure to not let the door close to reveal the blood. He repeated this process for the third floor. When the door opened, he looked left and saw a lone zombie shuffling its way towards him. He took the time to aim (it took much longer than it normally should have) and reduced the walking cadaver back to the way it should be, nice and dead. The gunshot rang loud in his head. It felt like his head was going to explode. He brought his hands back up to his head, pressing against the sides in an attempt to control this explosion. After a few seconds, his head stopped throbbing, and he realized the worst was over. Calmly, he randomly pressed a button taking him to the fifth floor.

As the elevator rose, Terry fell. Another wave of nausea hit him with all the force of a speeding truck. He fell to his knees, sure that he would throw up again, yet he managed to hold it down. As the room rose it seemed to spin, seeming to hurl Terry through the air. He felt like he was on one of those carnival rides, except, he knew it was just a normal hotel elevator.

Why did I do this? Terry questioned. I should have just stayed in that damn bed.

Then, as fast as it had started, it stopped.

The elevator slowed down, as did his breathing. He swallowed hard, barely believing what had just happened. What's wrong with me? he thought. Is this it? Is this what it's like when you change? God, I just want it to be over.

The elevator doors slid open, and that was when Terry lost it.

The metal door slid open, revealing the corpse of a maid slain at his feet. She was slim and young, probably working her way through college. Her hair was a dark, chestnut brown and it was matted together by blood. Terry saw none of these little details. In truth, he didn't even see the person before him. All he saw was the blood. There was so much of it! He saw how her throat had been torn open, and he saw the deep gashes in her uniform.

Suddenly, Terry's head ached and throbbed violently. The wave of nausea returned, as did his insane appetite. His legs felt like jell-o, yet he managed to stand.

EAT IT! that sinister voice bellowed, returning to the forefront of his mind. The voice scared Terry. It terrified him for one sole reason: he recognized it now. After all, how could he not recognize his own voice?

"No…" he muttered slowly, shaking his head side-to-side. He spoke out loud because he had to. The chant in his head (EAT IT! EAT IT! EAT IT!) was growing so loud his mind could not focus on anything else.

No, that was a lie. There was something else. He pictured himself wiping his hands in the pool of blood and licking them clean. Countless more grotesque pictures like this. They came with clean, sick detail, yet he didn't push them away. In fact he embraced them, letting his mind weave over every aspect. He enjoyed them, God help him, he enjoyed them.

"No! It's…not…not right." He was muttering slowly to himself, rambling almost incoherently "Not…No!" He brought his hands up to his face, trying to block out the picture of the slain maid, but it did not help. Though he could not see the blood, he could still smell it. It was sweet and inviting, almost like the scent of a kitchen that had been baking all sorts of goods.

It was this invitation that brought him to the body. Terry could no longer deny the powerful command to (EAT IT!) feast on this girl's flesh. He was too weak and powerless. The voice in his head was gone, but its presence was still felt. Terry could feel it waiting on the edge, watching him with growing interest. He was sure the voice was smiling (if it had a mouth, that was), smiling at his weakness.

Terry walked slowly, shambling almost. He saw himself walking like the zombies he had fought so much today as if he was another person. It was what most people referred to as an outer body experience. He saw himself reach towards the young woman's open throat. He saw his hand glide slowly, reaching, stretching, trying to feel the warmth of blood. He saw himself touch the crimson liquid, but he felt it too. It was this sight accompanied by the sense of touch that snapped Terry out of his trance.

"NO!" he screamed violently, throwing himself backwards. His back slammed hard against the tempered glass of the elevator. It did not break, nor did it crack. He fell to the floor, slumped against the glass wall. That last resistance, while valiant, had cost him dearly. He was now completely exhausted. He could not resist the voice anymore; it was impossible to resist its demonic call (EAT IT!).

Luckily, the elevator doors shut then, blocking his access to the very thing that had pushed him over the edge. This block finally silenced the evil influence that had clouded his thoughts like a thick, night fog. For the last few minutes of Terry's life, he was himself.

This rediscovered sense of oneself allowed him to realize what was happening. I'm dying, he thought slowly to himself.

Yes, he was dying, but he would be back. His shell would still haunt the earth, seeking flesh. That was what had happened to the man he had sat next to at the bar, and that was what was happening to him. The man had died from some disease (the zombie plague, or whatever you want to call it), but while the disease killed him, it also reanimated him. That was what was happening to the city and him. That is why everyone in Raccoon City was dead, yet undead at the same time.

That was all there was to it. In a matter of minutes, Terry himself would be one of the living dead. There was no way to stop it. No way, except for one.

He looked down to the handgun that lay next to him. When you shot a zombie in the head, it stayed dead. That was the one and simple truth of Raccoon City. Slowly, his hand moved towards the gun. If the dead body had called to Terry, this gun was attracting him. It was like his hand was a magnet and there was no possible force that could stop the pull.

If I have to die, this is the way. I don't want anyone else's blood on my hands.

His hand reached the weapon and his fingers curled around the trigger. At once, he felt at ease, finally at peace. It was like the gun was the soft blanket he would cuddle as a child. Don't worry, Terry, it called out to him. I'll make sure nothing bad happens. I'll protect you.

He brought the gun slowly up to his head. Yes, he would die, but he wouldn't be one of them. He would be himself. He would be Terry Wakefield.

He felt cool steel touch his temple. It was now or never. Smiling, Terry pulled the trigger.

Click!

There was no deafening report that would silence Terry and his thoughts. There was only the damn click of an empty clip. Disgusted, he threw the gun away, letting it bounce off the steel door of the elevator.

He had another clip in his pocket, but it would do him no good. He was far too weak to reload the gun. He probably wouldn't even be able to pull the hammer back.

Everything was slowly growing dark. Terry took one last glance over his shoulder, looking down at the lobby.

He saw the others down there, apparently looking for him. Yes, they were. He could hear them calling his name. Terry smiled to himself. Everything would work out. He would turn, yes, but the others would put him down. He smiled as his eyes closed for the last time (though they would open later, but they wouldn't be his eyes; they would be the eyes of an empty soul), knowing that the others would handle things from here.

Yes, his friends could take care of themselves. They didn't need Terry.

xXxXx

As far as Drew was concerned, this was true fear. People did have phobias— with everything ranging from water to mole rats— yet they were nothing compared to what Drew was experiencing. He was even more afraid now then he had been when being attacked by what Steve called, "the lizard-men." All of this fear stemmed from one simple fact: Terry was missing.

The group reached Terry's room in no time flat. The door had been left wide open, and Terry's bed was empty. Well, not completely empty. There was still plenty of blood left in it. It had soaked right through the sheets and the blankets— both of which had been tossed unceremoniously to the floor.

Other than the blood and the sheets, there was nothing else wrong with the room. It was still as neat as before, and it was this fact that worried Drew the most. There were no signs of struggle. It looked like Terry had just got up and walked off on his own accord.

"Where could he have gone?" Christie asked from behind Drew.

Drew could only shake his head stupidly. "I have no idea."

"Look here," Michael said, pointing to the ground. Drew followed his pointing finger to a spot on the floor, a red spot.

"Is that blood?" Drew asked, moving next to the teenager.

"Sure does look like it."

Drew looked at the spot of blood. There was not much of it, but it was enough. He looked around and spotted exactly what he was looking for, another spot of blood. This spot was right outside the door of the room. Now, we got something, Drew thought as he moved towards the spot. When he got there, he scanned the ground for another. Sure enough, three feet down from where he stood was another tiny splatter of blood. Terry was leaving a trail of breadcrumbs, and he didn't even know it.

"Terry!" Drew yelled again, cupping his hands around his mouth in an attempt of amplifying his voice. It worked. He could hear his own voice echo throughout the empty hotel, but his voice came back alone. No Terry.

He did not call again; it was useless to. He just had to follow the blood trail and hope to God Terry was still all right.

The trail of blood led to the elevator. The final drop was right outside the steel, blood covered doors, but he didn't know if the blood had come from Terry or from the mysterious donor whose blood now painted the elevator. He looked anxiously around, but saw no other clues. This had to be it, it just had to be.

Slowly, he reached out towards the call button. His fingers stopped right before touching the button. Was Terry inside the elevator? Was there something else in there with him?

Something. There was a word Drew wasn't particularly found of. In this night, he had seen two of his friends die, been attacked by zombies, and even attacked by lizard-people. Something could mean anything, and he did not like that.

He withdrew his magnum and double-checked its chambers to make sure it was fully loaded. Satisfied, he turned around and looked at his companions. They had all drawn their own weapons and they looked at Drew with grim determination set upon their faces. He glanced over at Christie who held the meat-cleaver in her hands.

"That might not do as much good as you hope," Drew said, pulling out the handgun he had with him. "Try using this. It's already loaded and the safety is off. Be careful."

She nodded determinedly.

"This is it. Time to see what's behind door number one." With that, Drew pushed the button. Moments later he heard the hum of the elevator and he saw it coming down. He wished the surface of it wasn't painted in that damn black. Then he would know what to expect when the elevator arrived.

He took a deep sigh when the elevator arrived, raising his magnum as he did so. He would be ready for whatever lay in store for him.

The doors slid open.

"No," Drew said quietly. His voice seemed to becoming from a mile away, and he was barely even aware that he had spoken at all. His mind was too absorbed at the sight before him.

Terry lay slumped against the side of the elevator, head dropped down onto his chest. His hand was a dark red, as if he had just been finger-painting, and there was blood dribbling down his chest from his wounds which had reopened. Other than that, there was very little blood. It looked like he had just collapsed from exhaustion.

"Damn it," Drew said, moving across to the crumpled form of his friend. He placed his fingers against Terry's neck. No pulse. That meant there was no life. Terry was…

No! Drew thought defiantly. Terry can't be dead. I must not have been doing it right. He's not dead. He has to be alive.

He placed his head next to Terry's mouth, listening for any breath. There was none. He refused to give up though. Drew placed his hand over Terry's left breast, feeling for a pulse of his heart. Just like before, there was nothing. Terry was gone.

Drew shook his head side-to-side. Tears started to flow down his face. He could feel them tracing patterns on his cheeks.

"Get back up," Drew whispered quietly to Terry. "You can't be dead. You just can't. Get back up. Damn it!"

The doors started to slide back shut. Michael stuck his hands out as if to block it, but Christie placed her hands over his and pulled them back. "We should leave them alone for a little while," she spoke softly.

Michael bit his bottom lip uncertainly. He looked over to his father who simply nodded. That was all the reassurance he needed. The doors slid shut, sealing Drew inside with his friend.

How could this have happened? Drew thought, barely aware that the doors had closed. Were you really that sick? We should have taken you to a hospital. That's what we should have done. Part of Drew realized that a hospital would have done no good based on the dilemma that the whole city was in right now, but that did not matter right now. He could only think of how Adam was dead. Zack was dead. Now, Terry was dead; there was one more death to chock up to Raccoon City's death toll.

He raised his hands to his face and rubbed out he tears still lingering there. He took one last look at his friend's face. His eyes were closed, making it easy for Drew to imagine him sleeping peacefully.

"Rest easy, Terry," Drew whispered to his friend's lifeless body as he stood up. He turned his back to his friend and prepared himself to leave. He would have to get a sheet or a blanket of some sort to cover up the security guard. In addition, he would need Josh's help in moving the body to one of the rooms. They could not just leave him sitting in the elevator. They had to give him a…

"Ughhhhh."

Drew stopped dead in his tracks. He recognized that sound all too easily. He had heard the same soulless moan all night.

How did one get in here? Drew thought absent-mindedly. He turned around to see his once dead friend slowly stand back up. Actually, it wasn't standing per se, it was more of slithering. His friend seemed to twist his way up effortlessly like a snake uncoiling itself. Drew was frozen solid with fear and shock as he saw his friend's eyes open to reveal the white blankness he was all to familiar of.

Terry's lifeless gaze met Drew's, and then he lunged forward. Drew was unprepared for such an assault and his zombie friend managed to grab a hold of his shoulders.

Drew could feel hot, rancid breath on his neck. Terry tried to bring his mouth down on Drew's exposed neck, but he managed to duck under the attack. He could hear the snap! of Terry's jaws shutting with lethal force, and he realized that could have been the end of him right there. He tried to move away, but Terry's undead grip still held him with ease. He tried to push his dead (but now alive) friend off of him, but the grip was strong. Funny, Drew never would have thought someone dead could have so much strength, but it was possible.

He wrestled with the undead copycat of his once alive friend, struggling to free himself. Terry's mouth snapped open and shut greedily in front of his face, sending spittle flying all over his face. Already, Drew could feel his strength being sapped away from the brawl. He already felt like he had gone ten rounds with Muhammad Ali. He needed to end this quickly. He needed to re-kill his best friend.

The only problem was that his hands were all tied up. He had a gun tucked into his waistband, but what good was it if he couldn't remove his hand to grab it? Just the slightest second would leave his defenses open.

Terry slammed him against one of the walls, knocking the wind out of the bassist, but Drew quickly retaliated by pushing him into another. They pinballed their way around the compact elevator, neither gaining any ground. Drew pushed Terry; Terry pushed Drew. Finally, Terry slammed him into another one of the hard, steel walls. Drew tried to move his feet again and slam his attacker back into the opposite wall, but it did no good. He had been pinned. Game, set, match.

Terry lunged forward, attempting to bite Drew's face off. Reacting quickly without thought, Drew brought up a hand and placed it around Terry's cold, pulse-less throat, a move that very well saved his life. Terry's face inched closer to Drew's, but he remained at bay. His rotten breath washed over the bassist, effectively gagging him. He pushed against the cold flesh, but the zombiefied security guard still managed to gain ground. It would be over in a matter of seconds if he couldn't figure this out.

He looked to his left and saw his edge. There was a panel of buttons glowing faintly. His eyes scanned the columns of buttons quickly, searching for the right one. His eyes flashed back and forth from the buttons to Terry, never looking at either for more than a second. He had to be quick; Terry's face was already nearly pressed to Drew's. He could feel his drool rolling off his dead tongue and on to his own shirt. There was no time to search for that damn OPEN DOOR button. Desperate, he slammed his elbow into the panel, pressing several buttons at once.

Suddenly, the earth seemed to shift under his feet as the elevator rose. The shift in gravity caught Terry off-guard. His face backed away from Drew's, but his grip never lessened.

Then, the elevator doors slid open behind Drew. For one moment his back was on a solid wall, and the next, it seemed to disappear, sending both him and Terry's cold, undead body sprawling to the floor. Finally, the zombie's deathlike grip loosened up. Drew rolled quickly across the carpeted floor, separating himself from Terry. Moving with liquid like movement, Drew stood up, simultaneously drawing the handgun from his waistband. Terry's undead form was already standing back up, but he reached his full height for no more than five seconds.

Leveling the gun on Terry's lifeless eyes, Drew hesitated one second. How could he just shoot one his greatest friends? The fact that Terry had just tried to rip out a good portion of his flesh didn't weigh any on his decision. In fact, there was one thought that gave him the resolve to pull the trigger: That's not Terry.

BAM!

One report, one bullet, and Terry fell to the ground in a heap with a good portion of his skull missing. Drew's good friend could now finally rest in peace. Sighing, Drew fell against the back wall, letting the gun dangle from his hands to the ground. This time, there were no tears. He just sat there with his head hanging limply between his knees, letting what had just happened sink in.

Terry turned into one of them, Drew thought. But how? His mind replayed the day's scenario in his mind. That was when he remember the scratch marks on Terry's chest. In his mind it was like working an equation, a very simple one at that. The whole thing could have easily been summed into, scratch plus person equals zombie. That was how there were so many of them so soon. One person infects another, and they in turn infect more. It was an exponential equation that would only end once everyone in the city turned to zombies.

Another horrible thought entered Drew's brain. What if the virus wasn't just in the city? Sure, it stood to reason that that was the case, for they had come to the city from a nation-wide tour. None of the other venues had had zombies. But what if they were all over the country? Or, Heaven forbid, the entire world. What would the group do then? In no time flat, the entire human population could find itself no longer the dominant species on earth. The undead would reign.

Don't think like that, Drew told himself. It does absolutely no good. Right now, you just have to think about this city. You can think about later once you're nice and safe.

That was, if there ever was a nice and safe.

A/N: For those of who haven't already, check out Raven Thornheart's fic Resident Evil: Black Ops. It's a kickass fic. Not to mention my characters make a few guest appearances in it, and later Raven's characters will appear in mine. It's a collaboration of sorts, and you should really check it out. Don't forget to leave reviews for it though. I'm sure Raven would love to hear what you think.

Besides that, I just want to say thanks for all the reviews. I'm always interested in hearing what you guys have to say, so don't forget to drop in a review and tell me your thoughts on this latest chapter. See you around next time.