Raccoon City was lost.

That much was clear, even without Jill's experience with the T-Virus two months prior. It hadn't been clear, at first, that the riots were a result of a T outbreak. But the increasing reports of cannibalistic murders that harkened back to the grizzly 'murders' that had led the S.T.A.R.S. to that godforsaken mansion in the mountains led the survivor to conclude that Umbrella's heinous experiments had not ended with the destruction of Ozwell Spencer's mansion.

By now, every member of the S.T.A.R.S. unit had been suspended. Rebecca Chambers had been first. She was only eighteen years old, but had witnessed horrors far more disturbing than even a man of Barry's age and experience could shoulder. She had confided in her fellow survivors that she had been fighting off Umbrella's abominations for almost twenty-four hours straight by the time Chris had found her in the mansion, having managed to survive another 'tyrant' and the supposedly undead Umbrella co-founder, James Marcus.

Chris, as if looking out for the well-being of his own sister, had suggested she get out of town and stay with family elsewhere. Brad had recommended a psychiatrist, should she feel the need to seek professional help. She had gratefully taken their advice and left less than a week after the incident. Rebecca was a healer, not a soldier. The work ahead of the S.T.A.R.S. was to be dangerous and none of her compatriots felt comfortable having the rookie out there on the front lines.

Chris had gone second, forcing Chief Irons's hand as an excuse for a 'vacation' in Europe, where he was secretly gathering intel on Umbrella. His coded messages were still coming in occasionally, but they'd had to go through one of Barry's old contacts to reach Chris and have him send them to Jill's home instead of the now empty S.T.A.R.S. office.

Barry had left a few weeks ago. He had always been worried about his family's safety; it was how Wesker had manipulated him during the Mansion Incident, after all. Jill had seen what a burden remaining in Raccoon under the watchful eye of the transparently corrupt Chief Irons had been on Barry and had told him to get his family out of town while she and Brad held down the fort. With so little of the team left in town, Irons had grown frustrated and simply suspended Jill and Brad out of convenience, keeping the absence of the R.P.D.'s elite unit under wraps.

It was now Monday September 28th and the quarantine had been ongoing for four days.

Only two of the surviving S.T.A.R.S. remained in the city now and Jill was beginning to snap. She had barely left her apartment in a week - to keep clear of the riots and, as was becoming increasingly clear, zombies, and from the increasing sense that she was being watched by what she assumed to be Umbrella spies. Brad repeatedly informed her of having the same feeling, which gave Jill some comfort, knowing that she wasn't becoming a delusional nut job on the verge of losing it.

She had wanted to help get civilians to safety, but her suspension had precluded any police work, even in such a desperate situation. Then again, Jill wasn't sure how much she could really contribute, even if she had been empowered to help. Her dreams had been plagued with nightmares since the Spencer Mansion and she hadn't managed a good night's sleep in over two months.

Brad had proposed she leave town as well and seek help while he stayed behind. Jill had appreciated, but declined his offer, claiming that they needed as many hands on deck as possible as the situation as the city grew worse. But secretly, she also held something of a grudge for Brad's abandonment of Alpha Team upon the team's encountering the T-infected dogs in the forest. Of course, she would never openly admit to not trusting Brad to stay and keep an eye on the city so strongly affiliated with Umbrella. She would take that secret to her grave.

Jill sat on her couch by the fire escape window in the early hours of the morning, not looking forward to another restless night. Her dream this time had seen Chris return with news of Umbrella's activities, only for Albert Wesker, the now dead traitor to the S.T.A.R.S., to kick down the door to her apartment and shoot Jill with a dart containing a new strain of the T-Virus. This strain, he explained, could reduce the host to a mindless killing machine in mere seconds. Jill had awoken as her undead form lunged at Chris, sending her tumbling out of her bed and hitting her head on the hardwood floor.

She hadn't bothered to put on any pants to match her tank top, knowing she wasn't leaving the house any time soon. The last thing she needed was to flaunt her lack of sleep while Umbrella agents observed her every move.

She had tried to watch the news, but nothing had really changed since the previous night. Things had gotten worse, of course, but hardly in any way new. More reported infections, more of the city cordoned off by the R.P.D., more cretins ignoring the quarantine warning from the R.P.D. She was sure Brad would call if anything major-

The phone began to ring. Worried that her idle thoughts were somehow prophetic, Jill jumped to her feet and crossed her living room in seconds to answer.

"Hello?" she asked, trying to mask her grogginess.

"Jill? It's Brad!" She didn't need him to tell her who he was for her to recognise his voice. Or the panic therein. "Oh, Christ, Jill. What the fuck are gonna do now?"

"Brad, slow down," Jill said in what she hoped was a calming tone, though she doubted it was, given the concern rising within her. "What's going on?"

"You didn't see the news?" There was almost a tone of disbelief in his voice.

"No, why?" Jill moved as far as the phone cord would allow and was just able to stretch her leg far enough to scrape the remote from the couch and across the floor with her foot. Before Brad could answer, she had the news back on and her heart sank.

"R.P.D. Falls" the news ticker declared as the anchor reported the story over the live helicopter feed of the police station, its massive front gate wide open and its barricades destroyed. There was no hope. Raccoon was well and truly fucked.

"Oh, no," was all Jill could utter at the report.

"We gotta get out of the city!" Brad cried on the other end of the phone. Jill could only nod in agreement.

"Wh... Where are you right now, Brad?" Jill steeled herself and forced some strength into her voice to reassure her anxiously compatriot.

"I'm at the payphone across from Bar Black Jack."

"Okay. Get inside and barricade the doors and windows if you can. I'll be there in ten minutes. Don't do anything reckless."

"When have you ever known me to be reckless?"

"Coming back to a zombie-infested mansion with a rocket launcher seems pretty reckless to me." Jill couldn't help but smile as she heard Brad make reassured sound. Regardless of her misgivings about the man, he was reliable when it counted. Still, if they were going to get out of town alive, he needed to be the rocket-delivering Cavalry Brad, not Chickenheart Brad.

Jill hung up the phone and rushed to get her pants on. She took a white cardigan and wrapped it around her waist, just in case she needed to wrap up later, though the night was quite a warm one. Finally, she grabbed her pistol and a few extra mags. She felt bad about skipping town with Brad right now and leaving her fellow officers and citizens to fend for themselves as the city fell, but in her condition - restless, traumatised, barely-armed - she wouldn't be much help to anyone. It was better for her and Brad to look out for themselves and ensure they could get out of the city and continue the fight against Umbrella to ensure Spencer was brought to justice.

At least, that's what she told herself.

She had managed to grab her boots and was opening the fridge to take an energy drink to perk herself up when the phone started ringing again. She assumed it was Brad, updating her on the Bar Black Jack situation. She was about to answer the phone when there was a banging on the door. Mrs. Marshal, the woman in the apartment below hers was infamous in the complex for her regular noise complaints, of which Jill had been the subject of four in the year or so she'd lived here. Not in the mood for the older woman's bullshit right now, Jill elected to ignore the door and answer the phone. She was halfway across the apartment when the door crashed open.

Standing in the doorway was a group of four individuals. One was, indeed, Mrs. Marshal. The other three were unknown to Jill. What she did know, however, was that the guttural moaning, milky eyes, ashen skin and bloodstained clothes of the four meant only one thing.

"Zombies," Jill muttered under her breath. She was sure she could deal with the four, given their slow, shambling pace, but her ammunition was limited and Brad was expecting her soon. With little other choice, Jill dropped the drink into one of her boots and ran for the window, hopping out onto the fire escape and closing the window as much as she could to slow the intruders down.

Taking one last wistful look at the place she had called home for the past year, her belongings destined to be taken by looters or burned in one of the riot's many raging fires, Jill rushed down the fire escape, just as a voice came through the answering machine: "Jill? It's Claire." Jill reached the bottom and leapt onto a nearby truck, where she could slip on her boots in relative safety before she continued on.

Unbeknownst to Jill, her movements were being observed by a silent stalker. Its demeanour cold and focused. Its mind at once deathly empty and cunningly calculating. Behind its milky white eye, despite its robotic plotting, only a single word managed to form cohesively:

"S.T.A.R.S."

Believe it or not, this story exists purely because I had the idea of Claire trying to reach Jill by phone to ask about Chris just as she's forced to flee her apartment. It was going to be Nemesis pursuing Jill, but I liked the idea of ending on him watching her from afar, so I went with simple zombies. It took only a couple of hours to write.

Also, 3make is good, but short. Happy release day.