Friday, July 24th, 1998
1025 Wembley Road
Whitchley District, Uptown Raccoon City
9:05pm

Cranky dashed into the house as fast as his legs could carry him, despite the limited movement his suit placed upon him. They still felt a little shaky and unstable from the workout he had at the hotel gym earlier that evening but otherwise, they did what they needed to do. He covered the distance of the cobblestone walkway in the garden, leading up to the house, in just a few seconds. As soon as he got inside the house, he could hear commotion coming from the foyer.

The guests, all in their finest evening wear, stood with their backs to him. Ladies held gloved hands to cover their mouths. Men shielded their eyes from a view they did not want to see. A few of the guests were passed out on the ground, having seemingly fainted, lying in the laps of their significant others who fanned desperately at their faces.

But they were not the center of attention.

That honor belonged to a man kneeling at the center of the circle of people, a man who Cranky did not recognize. His right hand held tightly onto the wrist of his left. The sleeve of his dress shirt was rolled up to the elbow, baring his forearm, displaying an unsightly wound. A chunk of flesh was missing, black around the edges as if it had been infected by some kind of flesh-eating bacterial disease. The area surrounding the wound sported hideous boils, filled to the brim with puss that threatened to spill over the guests around him if popped. Cranky's eyes traced the trail of blood leading from his arm, to a patch of decaying flesh that lay on the tiled floor a foot or two away.

Cranky found himself holding a hand to his mouth, fighting the urge to fill the contents of his stomach at the grotesque image, yet his eyes could not look away. The man hunched over and sobbed into the floor.

"It's just an itch, I swear!" he cried, tears falling from his eyes. "It was supposed to be just a rash but ..." he gestured with his free hand to the gore that littered the ground, "... I don't know what's happening to me!"

"It looks like some form of advanced necrosis," another man said, stepping forth, kneeling beside the distraught guest's side. He looked to be of Middle Eastern or East Indian descent, clean cut with his hair slicked back, sporting a neatly groomed mustache. He grabbed the guest's arm and inspected the wound for a moment and nodded in confirmation. "Definitely seems like it, given the visuals and the odor."

"And who are you?" Mr. Wilberforce cried. Cranky noticed him as one of the closest bystanders, with his wife Alicia lying in his lap having fainted from the sight.

"My name is Dr. Hursch, and I work at Raccoon City General Hospital," he stated. "I've seen this before. We need to get this man to a hospital, ASAP."

"Why, what's wrong with him?" The horrified speaker was Mrs. Wade this time.

Dr. Hursch shook his head regrettably. "We're still trying to figure it out."

The guests shrank back, if only by a fraction. But there was one figure standing among them that Cranky noticed hadn't budged an inch. Police Chief Brian Irons. The perverted sicko continued staring at the wounded guest kneeling on the floor, lips pressed into a thin line, brows creased, like he wanted to say something but was barely able to keep his instincts in check. Cranky narrowed his eyes at the man with suspicion. The Chief of Police, a rapist, and now someone who potentially knew what was going with this man, yet refused to assist in anyway. And Kenny had, only moments ago, mentioned strange things going on in town. Cranky was definitely going to have to keep an eye on the Chief.

As Cranky watched him intently, the Chief shrank back slowly away from the crowd, not noticing Cranky's eyes on him. Something didn't seem right with Irons, for as soon as the fat man was certain nobody was paying attention to him, he spun on his heels and walked hastily away from the crowd, back towards the garden from which Cranky came.

He let Chief Irons get a few steps ahead of him before he followed suit, walking softly but speedily on the marble floor of the fine home. Cranky tailed the Chief until he stepped out onto the outdoor patio. Instead of following him outside, Cranky chose instead to remain hidden indoors, behind an open door, making sure to keep his frame hidden by the white drapes.

"What has your husband done?" the Chief asked quietly, seemingly to nobody. "What kind of stunt does he think pulling here? Do you have any idea the kind of PR mess I'm going to have to clean up because of his insolence?! Where is William? Bring him to me so I can wring the very life from his skinny throat!"

Cranky peeked his head around the curtain, trying to get a better view of whoever Chief Irons was talking to. He didn't see anyone out there earlier, so he was probably on the phone, which was why he couldn't see ...

"Fool," a second voice spoke condescendingly. This one was higher in pitch; female. She stepped into view - a tall and slender woman dressed in a white gown and a pearl necklace around her neck. Long blond hair parted down the middle reaching down to her chin. She stood, in contrast to the Chief's rotund, angry form, tall, cool and confident. "Going by the symptoms alone, that man was infected by a T-variant. Not the G."

The Chief waved his stubby hands angrily in front of her. "T, G, I or goddamned F, it doesn't matter!" He pointed a sausage-like finger at the woman. "You're supposed to keep your experiments on Arklay grounds, and not a foot beyond the property. What the hell is the virus doing showing up in town?"

"There's been an accident at the Arklay facility," the woman replied coolly. "The T-Virus falls beyond my jurisdiction; and William's."

"I agreed to sacrifice the lives of the STARS members as long as the situation was contained," the Chief retorted. "You're telling me that it isn't?

"And with whom did you agree to this?" she asked.

"Albert."

The woman let out a laugh. "Albert Wesker? You really are a fool, Brian. I'm starting to question whether or not you are worth continuing this conversation with. Your precious STARS members are as good as dead."

"How could you do this to me, Annette?" the Chief cried. "After all my years of service to Umbrella?"

"Let me get one thing straight, Brian," Annette hissed, "I am not responsible for whatever freak show came on display tonight, and neither is William. So don't you DARE go making a scapegoat of the Birkin name."

The Chief calmed down for a moment, and adjusted his tie, struggling to control his rage. Cranky gathered this woman must have been powerful to make him reconsider his actions with a simple threat. "Very well, then. If it wasn't you, it must have been the Hartley's."

"Desperation isn't a colour that suits you, Brian," Annette replied. "Jonathan and Elizabeth aren't stationed at the Arklay facility. You know this. If you want to take this up with someone, Wesker's your best bet. Whatever you do, don't go dragging the rest of us down with you."

It had been awhile, over a decade, since Cranky had dared listen in on a conversation. And though his instincts remained intact when he decided he'd heard enough, he was not used to how he'd grown since his pre-teen years. As he turned around to head in the opposite direction, his heel slammed against the base of the patio door, earning him a startled gasp from Annette Birkin and Brian Irons. It didn't matter - he was still able to walk quickly enough away before they could spot him - until he came face to face with Lawrence Wilberforce.

"Shit," Cranky began quietly, "those two people outside, I think they know what's going on with that poor soul in the foyer."

Mr. Wilberforce cocked a graying eyebrow. "Is that so, Mr. Crankurt?" He paused, and to Cranky's horror, called to the two individuals he'd been eavesdropping on seconds ago. "Brian, Annette! It appears Mr. Crankurt has overheard your private conversation and seems to think you'll be able to shed some light on what's going on with the sick guest in the foyer."

"I'm afraid that's giving us far too much credit," Annette Birkin said, stepping through the doors with Chief Irons inches behind her. She turned her attention to Mr. Wilberforce. "And how is Alicia?"

"I left her in the care of Gloria Lonsdale," Mr. Wilberforce replied. "The woman's as bright as a black hole, but she means no harm."

Cranky could have sworn he saw the Chief's moustache switch as soon as he'd set eyes upon him. "This man has certainly proved to be an inconvenience."

Cranky stepped forward to face the Chief, closing the distance between them with a single stride. "One count of attempted rape, and now conspiring to spread some kind of ..."

"You would be ill-advised to finish that sentence, Mr. Crankurt," Annette Birkin said, folding her arms.

He continued staring at the Chief. "And I'm the one who's the inconvenience?"

The conversation was killed before anyone else could respond however, as the sounds of shrill sirens pierced the air. Someone had apparently called for an ambulance for the sick party guest and it had arrived. As if concerned they would be seen together, the group quickly dispersed, leaving Cranky standing alone in the middle of the dining hall.

Garden, 1025 Wembley Road
Whitchley District, Uptown Raccoon City
9:17pm

Kenny had half walked, half crawled his way back towards the house in response to the panicked screams, despite Cranky's orders. His curiosity had gotten the better of him and he wanted to find out what was going on. But his drunken state had impeded his progress. He remembered, a few minutes ago, spotting Chief Irons speaking with Mrs. Birkin, the mother of one of the girls Sarah-Lee babysat on weekends to earn some extra cash. He recalled fondly the times he used to sneak into the Birkin family home to meet Sarah-Lee while she watched TV after tucking in the little girl, Sherry, for the night.

Mrs. Birkin and Chief Irons seemed to be well acquainted with each other; something Kenny had not expected but given the tight knit Uptown community, it didn't at all come as a surprise either; except that it looked like he was upset with her. Remembering that he was illegally drunk, Kenny slowed his pace so as to not be noticed by the squabbling duo.

That was when a dark figure came into view. Lights from the house highlighted her feminine form as she squatted to pick him up into a standing position. Kenny felt strands of her hair brush across his cheek. He forced his eyes to focus on the girls face and as his blurry vision slowly came into focus, recognized the girl instantly.

"Lisa?"

"You smell like a distillery," Lisa Hartley commented, supporting Kenny's skinny frame with hers. "Come on, let's get you inside."

"No," Kenny protested. "Chief can't see me like this. I'll get fired."

"There are bigger things going on in that house than you being drunk," Lisa said, in a-matter-of-fact tone. "Phil and the others are wondering where you are. How did you even get like this?"

"Sarah's fault," Kenny replied, leaning his head on Lisa's collarbone. "Said Julie's a manipulating bitch, then she gave me a drink."

"Isn't that the truth?" Lisa mumbled under her breath, dragging Kenny inside and back to the lounge where the other teens were congregated. Though he could only make out a few vague human forms, the first voice Kenny heard was loud and clear, belonging Phil Barrett.

"A chunk of the dudes arm just came off!" he said, waving his hands animatedly in the air. The other boys surrounding him suddenly quieted when they sensed Lisa's approach.

"Found one of your guys," Lisa reported, shouldering Kenny. "Is there anywhere I can set him down? He's not light."

"The couch is fine," Phil said, motioning towards the unoccupied sofa where they sat minutes ago confronting Julie Wilberforce and her groupies. "Had a bit to drink, did he?"

"I'm fine," Kenny insisted, as Lisa released his mass into the sofa. She exhaled with the effort and tucked some loose strands of hair behind her ear. He watched as Phil Barrett gently placed a hand on Lisa's slender shoulder. She looked up at him, unsure of what to expect next from Raccoon's football star. He gave her a gentle smile.

"Thanks for bringing Kenny back," he said earnestly. "I just found out about the shit Julie's been pulling with him." He shook his head. "Not cool."

Lisa looked up at Phil, brows furrowed in concern. "What are you talking about?" she asked. "Kenny's been acting different lately, but I thought it was just him being difficult with Jack and all." She motioned at Phil and the other boys surrounding him. "Not unlike how you guys have been treating him."

From behind her, Justin rested his chin on Lisa's shoulder with a mock sad expression on his face. "I hear you're taking in charity cases," he taunted. "My parents didn't get me that new pair of jeans I wanted. Maybe you can help my poor little soul?"

Lisa reacted by smacking him off her. "Cut it out!"

"That's enough, Justin," Kenny protested from the couch. He had his head supported by the backing of the couch. He rolled it slightly to look Lisa in the eye. "Julie made me threaten Jack, to get him to stay away from you."

"Wilberforce," Justin piped up, toward Kenny this time. "I don't know why you're associating with her. I was floored yesterday when you told me to leave you two alone for a second. What the hell was up with that? I thought you hated her!"

"Shit, Justin, you know I do," Kenny replied weakly.

"Then what's with the exclusive Kenny / Julie tag-team all of a sudden, man?"

"We know how you got into Raccoon City," Phil said calmly, "but you pay your taxes and contribute as well as anyone." Phil turned to Justin. "On paper, it sounds kinda shady, I'll admit. But we've got more important problems to take care of. Like Jack and the rest of his downtown goons."

Lisa looked like she wanted to protest for a moment but was cut off by Tyrone.

"I still don't get how Kenny's situation involves Wilber-whore in any way."

"The fact that she knows," Kenny replied. "She saw it as leverage to get what she wanted against Jack. So she convinced me, using her knowledge of my situation, to threaten him."

"That bitch," Justin whispered in shock. "So that's what she talked to you about yesterday when she harassed us? Wow, Kenny. I ... God, I don't know what to say. How did she find out?"

"Her dad's a pretty successful lawyer," Phil offered, "though I admit I didn't think she'd ever sink that low. She'll flaunt her power however she can with or without motivation from others. But in getting Kenny to do her dirty work for her, she must be pretty desperate to keep Lisa on her side."

"I was never on Julie's side to begin with," Lisa protested in disgust. "As far as I'm concerned, she's using me just as much as she's using anybody here."

"So you're finally ditching Julie?" Tyrone questioned her, smirking. "So you've finally developed half a brain."

"Except it appears she's using Kenny to stop that," Lisa said, ignoring his insult.

"I swear if she wasn't a girl, I'd have her lying in a ditch somewhere," Justin said, punching a fist into an open palm. "Or feed her to the cannibal murderers." He chuckled at his own joke, and although Kenny could sense some sincerity in it, Kenny shot him an angry look.

"The cannibal murders are nothing to be joking about, man. I keep reading about the cases at work. While we're all comfy in our cozy uptown neighbourhoods, there's some serious shit happening downtown. People are dying, or going missing daily. Crazy bums are coming into the precinct telling us about mysterious moans and the stink of death getting worse every day. And you know it's true. The moans. We've all heard it."

An uncomfortable silence fell among the group of teens. Nobody wanted to agree with Kenny, for fear of being labeled crazy. But nobody could deny it either.

"The police won't allow that kind of thing to happen up here," Tyrone offered, though Kenny wasn't sure if anyone felt reassured. "They'll protect us if they feel we're at risk. We pay their goddamned checks for crying out loud!"

"I don't think it's worth getting worked up over something we can't control," Lisa said with finality. "I need to get going home. I take it Kenny will be fine in your capable hands?"

"No," Kenny said, struggling to get to his feet. "Not alone. I can't in good conscience let you walk around at this time of the night with all the reports of attacks coming in."

"What are you gonna do?" she asked Kenny, rubbing his arm gently. "Vomit over my attackers?"

"All right, Hartley," Phil reluctantly agreed, nodding to Tyrone, "he'll drive you home."

"I'm sorry for all this drama with Julie," Lisa said, "none of this is fair. I'm not letting Julie escalate this any further. I promise you that." She didn't wait for a reaction from any of the boys before turning around and making her way out of the room with Tyrone, and out of the house, with finality.

Front Lawn, 1025 Wembley Road
Whitchley District, Uptown Raccoon City
9:22pm

Whipping the cell phone out from the inside pocket of his jacket, Cranky auto-dialed the number of his contact. Perspiration had collected in innumerable droplets on his forehead and on the small of his back. The sick guest, who was now being loaded onto the ambulance, and the conversation he'd unfortunately overhead between Chief Brian Irons and Annette Birkin had caused him extreme unease. The late summer heat wasn't making things any easier for that matter. Flashes of red and blue light from the ambulance punctuated the atmosphere, as the guest was loaded into the rear, scratching at his arm like a mad man, insisting he was fine amidst the cries of concerns from fellow soiree attendees.

Cranky brought the phone to his ear, and although it must have rang less than five times, the time he spent waiting for a response felt like an eternity. Finally his informant answered grumpily from the other end of the line.

"This had better be good," the informant grumbled, "where you able to find out anything tonight?"

"Too much," Cranky spat angrily, not at his informant, but at the situation in general. "This town is more fucked up than I'd anticipated. I thought the missing trains, the focus on plunging stocks and missing hikers were bad enough. Now they're talking about weird goddamned viruses spreading through town. And this one guy scratched off a chunk of his own arm tonight!"

"Whoa, hold on a second, Crankurt. You're spouting nonsense."

"That's because nonsense is exactly what this shit-hole of a town is!" Cranky nearly screamed into the phone. Realizing at that moment at which the volume he spoke, he toned his volume down a few notches. "Listen, I say we engage the target and get the hell out of this town as soon as possible. I don't want either of us to stay here a second longer than we have to!"

"But the target is suffering ..."

"Amnesia confirmed, for Christ sake!" Cranky interrupted. "And to be blunt, after what I've discovered today, I'm all out of shits to give."

"You engaged?!"

"Damn straight I did," Cranky confirmed, "but don't worry, I revealed nothing. Still that doesn't change my suggested plan of action."

"Is everything all right, Mr. Crankurt?"

As soon as he had heard the interrupting voice, Cranky hit the hang-up button of his cell phone without a word of goodbye, before turning around to see the newcomer. It had turned out to be Alicia Wilberforce, accompanied by another woman, who he assumed to be Gloria Londsdale, if the information he overheard was anything to go by.

"I'm sorry, yes, Alicia," he said, pocketing the cell phone. "It's just that the recent spectacle had me at somewhat of an unease."

"Yes, I ..." Mrs. Wilberforce began, "... had quite the reaction myself. But the medics seem to have everything under control now. I suggest you come back inside."

Cranky narrowed his eyes at her, trying to decide whether it was a friendly suggestion or an order.

Noticing his misinterpretation, Mrs. Wilberforce elaborated. "There was a thunderstorm forecasted for tonight, and Raccoon City is a mountain community - high altitudes. Lightning strikes, Mr. Crankurt. And it looks like it's starting to roll in from the Arklay Mountains."

She pointed a manicured finger towards a range of mountains towards the north, where lightning flashes occasionally outlined the large, bulbous shape of a looming storm cloud. As if on cue, a low, rumbling groan of thunder filled the air. Eyes still concentrated on the mountain range, Cranky wondered what it would have sounded like if he had been on that mountain range, then shuddered at the concept. He turned around to follow Mrs. Wilberforce back into the house.

"How is Mrs. Wade, doing?" Cranky asked her, wondering how their conversation went since he departed them earlier in the evening.

"She's putting a great deal of effort into convincing us that she's fine," Mrs. Wilberforce responded. "I don't believe a word of it though. I tried getting more information out of Barbara, like what the perpetrator looked like. She wouldn't tell me a thing."

Mrs. Wilberforce's admission hit Cranky like an eighteen wheeler. The man responsible for her ordeal was amongst them tonight; the elite of Raccoon City. As the Chief of Police, Cranky understood that Brian Irons was a powerful man. But how powerful could he have been intimidate Mrs. Wade to hide the truth from one of her own friends? Sure, it was clear that the term "friends" carried a loose definition in Uptown Raccoon but still...

She led him inside back to the lounge where the guests were gathered, with drinks in their hands. Clearly, alcohol was needed to help them get over the grotesque sight they'd just been subjected to. Cranky noticed that even the teenagers were present, among which included Kenny, who he had come across under the influence as a minor earlier tonight. The boy seemed to be composed well now though. Vomiting all over the well manicured lawn must have helped him.

In the center of the gathering stood a man, who if not for his position in the mass of people, Cranky would have passed him off as another well dressed Uptown citizen. The middle-aged man stood tall among the guests, brown hair slicked back against his skull, revealing crystal blue eyes demanding attention from the others in attendance.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he spoke, loud voice booming. He tapped a teaspoon against a glass filled with some kind of bourbon. The clinking of the silverware against the glass rang through the air, silencing the concerned mumbles. "Thank you all so much for being in attendance tonight, and welcoming me, my wife Teresa, and our daughter Milly to Raccoon City. For those whom I've yet to meet, my name is Clinton Truman, and it is me and wife who are hosting tonight's soiree in our new home. I must apologize for the earlier incident but I assure everyone that thanks to the assistance of Dr. Hursch, Dr. George Hamilton, Chief Irons and Senior Officer Marvin Branagh, the incident is contained and our friend is receiving the medical attention he needs."

Mr. Truman motioned to the string quartet standing behind him, who began playing a lilting, cheerful composition in response to his gesture. The guests looked at each other in confusion for a moment, though as the seconds ticked by, it was clear the music was beginning to slowly change the mood of the room. Mr. Truman continued.

"Let the celebration continue," he called to the crowd, as the tensions began to ease. "Enjoy the festivities, and the refreshments at the bar."

The guests dispersed, though Cranky remained where he stood, unable to believe they could have carried about their business like nothing had ever happened. Perhaps it was some kind of a sheltered coping mechanism where they were able to convince themselves that if they were surrounded by nice things, they could easily forget the inconvenience of everyday reality. Glancing to his left, however, Cranky was still surprised to see Mrs. Wilberforce at his side. She did, however, maintain a suspicious glare at him, one that he read as out of concern more than anything else.

"Are you feeling all right, Mr. Crankurt?" she asked. As she tilted her head with the inquiry, her diamond earrings swung slightly with the momentum, sparkling even in the dim light of the lounge.

Cranky shook his head subtly, staring off into the distance. "I'm just ..." Trying to understand the weird culture of this rural town? Figure out the fine details of the local populace? Complete his objective as soon as possible without having to worry about the political bullshit unfolding before his eyes?

"I think I just need something strong," he replied shortly and strode over to the bar. But Mrs. Wilberforce was persistent. She followed him, shawl flowing behind her aged, but graceful form.

"And I think you're itching to say something," she retorted. "You've already had too much to drink, and you're looking pale, as if you've seen a ghost. Then I catch you running outside with the impending storm."

"You're paying an awful lot of attention to me," Cranky said angrily. He helped himself to a glass of whisky and finished it in a single gulp. He slammed the glass back down onto the table a swept a forearm across his lips.

"The second I laid eyes on you, I knew you lacked class," she replied through clenched jaws. "Typical of Barbara to bring someone of her ilk to our community. Filth begets filth. The Trumans, with their ties to the government, have a lot to offer Raccoon City. And I will not stand idly by and let you taint this lovely evening."

Cranky turned his head slowly towards Alicia Wilberforce, eyes narrowed angrily. "Teenagers boozing it up under your watchful eye. And then some guy walks in and scratches a chunk of his arm off. I hear the Chief of Police - who nearly raped your 'friend' last night - speaking in hushed tones to some blonde broad about a leaked virus into town, and your goddamned husband jumps to his defense. And you think I'M the problem?!"

The flow of accusations caused Mrs. Wilberforce's eyes to widen in shock. She opened her mouth to speak but before she could say anything, Cranky continued his tirade.

"I didn't come here for any of this, Alicia." He threw an arm in the air of indifference. "I'm just here doing Barbara a favor."

Mrs. Wilberforce ended the conversation by spinning around angrily on her heels and walked rapidly away, towards her husband waiting in the distance. Her shoes tapped against the floor, fading into the distance, toward her husband Lawrence, who only glared angrily back at Cranky with a wordless threat. He was a powerful man, one who Cranky had hoped would help validate the conversation Cranky had overheard with the Chief and his mysterious blonde compatriot, Annette. But Lawrence quickly revealed his allegiance, and it was not with Cranky.

He couldn't believe his luck; or lack thereof. Barely two days into his stay in Raccoon City and through no fault of his own, he'd already pissed off two of the city's most powerful citizens. Cranky began to suspect not only the corruption in this town, but realize the seemingly bottomless depth that it reached. Definitely not the kind of place he'd wish upon his most hated enemy, let alone a loved one. Something strange was going on in this city and Cranky realized he had two choices; procure the target and high tail it out of here, or walk the dark dangerous road that his instincts told him lay ahead.

Lawrence Wilberforce was the one to break the tense glare shared between the two men as he draped an arm over the shoulder of his wife, and the pair turned their backs to Cranky. Their presence faded as the distance between them grew, but the silent threat hung heavy at the back of his mind. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously and their shrinking forms wondering what Lawrence could do to him after overhearing what he did. Cranky could feel the muscles in his body subconsciously tense with anticipating, entering fight mode. But he fought the instinct - this was hardly the time and place to cause a scene, especially if he wanted to stay in Raccoon City for longer than two days.

Saturday, July 25th, 1998
Main Hall
Raccoon City Police Precinct
8:14am

Kenny plopped into the seat at his workstation behind the statue of a woman bearing water. The elegant sculpture obscured his view from the twin teal doors that served as the main entrance to the precinct. His heart raced, pumping blood through his veins from his brief conversation with Jack down in the holding cells; residual adrenaline from the tense discussion. His mind replayed the conversation in his head over and over again, wondering if he was able to get Jack to at least sympathize with what was going on beyond the high school social sphere; that Raccoon City was in the middle of a bizarre mystery that had got even the city's finest worried.

Glancing quickly to his right, Kenny noticed that his hand had subconsciously reached for a photograph. The oils on his fingertips had grasped onto the lower edges of the photo and he pulled it closer, eyeing the grotesque image it captured.

He'd seen a million movies featuring creatures that looked exactly like this, on the nights he and Sarah Lee would spend together in secrecy from their peers at school. They would be cuddled on the couch, a single wool blanket draped over both their forms while the zombies on screen bit into their victims, ripping them apart with their teeth while they were still alive. But it was fiction. Make-believe. Turning it over, the found hand written scribbles on the back.

Found this on the body of one of the latest victims. It's an exclusive photo, probably taken before the victim died. Could this be one of the cannibal killers? – Alyssa Ashcroft.

Kenny had heard of Alyssa Ashcroft all right, but not for the reasons she would have wanted. Rumors of monsters in the forest were rampant now, but it was Ben Bertolucci from the Raccoon Daily who had first reported on the missing hikers back in early Spring. The Times, however, were locally known as a borderline tabloid paper and had initially blamed the disappearances on extraterrestrial abductions due to the presence of heavily secured military bases a few hundred miles from Raccoon City. And the allegations were spearheaded by none other than the woman who had written the note. She personified, to Kenny at least, everything wrong with contemporary journalism. When you don't have a story, make one up.

"She works for a tabloid," Kenny said aloud. He scoffed at his own gullibility; for a few minutes there, he'd fallen for her tactics. The photograph was a fake, fabricated by the Raccoon Times. A wave of relief washed upon him in that epiphany. He should have been angry; at her for lying to him just to get a story out, and at himself for believing it. But in that moment, he didn't care. Raccoon was not in danger of some supernatural force. "You're an idiot," he told himself.

Kenny tossed the photograph onto a disheveled stack of papers at the corner of his workstation, and was about to get back to work, when he noticed a strange residue on the fingers that held it; dark red, and crusty. He'd had nosebleeds in the past, and this residue was identical to that of dried blood. Curious, he reached over to the photograph for a second time in about just as many minutes and flipped it over, examining the back. And sure enough, there were dried blood droplets, a little smaller than a penny each, dotted on the back of the material. Stained streaks of where his fingers had disrupted the dried blood marks indicated where his fingertips made contact with the photo.

Just as quickly as the wave of relief had washed over him, it suddenly disappeared, replaced with doubt. The note accompanying it had mentioned it obtained it off a dead body of the latest victim, except that Kenny had no idea how recently the latest victim had been claimed. If the blood was any indication, the kill must have been fresh ...

Kenny gasped and stood up suddenly, taking a step away from his desk, as if to distance himself from the photograph. He was looking at evidence from a murder scene. But for some bizarre reason, it hadn't been filed away in the evidence room in accordance with protocol. He glanced towards the pile of papers that he had discovered the photograph lying in - old receipts, outdated copies of reports and monthly expenditures that had already been filed ages ago - material to be shredded, in other words. How in the world did evidence end up in a pile of paperwork intended to be shredded?

It was a picture of a man who at first glance, seemed to be a bum, a typical sight in downtown. But the expression on his face was … absent. His pupils had lost most of their color, he was drooling and judging by the stance, looked as if he were shuffling towards the photographer. The color of his skin was a sickly gray, his hair was a mop of dead frizz, and a trail of something from the corner of his mouth, that Kenny could only guess was blood? Flipping the article over, Kenny discovered a positive copy of the photograph, higher in resolution. The colors were and it was clear that his skin really was gray. But the original print revealed more details like the boils on the skin, the blood on his lips, making him look like a clown.

"Like what you see, kid?"

The voice snapped Kenny out of his thoughts, realizing only then that he had been staring at the papers for ... he didn't know how long. He looked up at the speaker, a blonde woman with blonde hair cropped to her chin, standing on the other side of the desk clad from head to toe in a maroon suit. Her nametag gave her away as media personnel, except that she wasn't making him eat a microphone. Kenny took a second look at the nametag, and glanced down again at the photograph he held in his hands. They matched.

"I know you, Ms. Ashcroft," Kenny said. "From the Raccoon Times."

The woman smiled. "Well, whaddaya know? Someone who knows a name in the local media that isn't Ben Bertolucci. I guess there is hope for the future of this city after all."

He opted, however, to place his biases aside when addressing Alyssa Ashcroft, choosing to draw attention to the article he held in his hands.

"Swiped it from a body this morning," the journalist continued bragging, smug smile across her otherwise pretty features. "Not exactly the most law-abiding act, but I needed the story. But it ended up in its rightful place at the precinct after all, am I right?"

"M...Ma'am," Kenny stuttered nervously, "there are law in place against tampering with police evidence."

Alyssa Ashcroft shrugged at his suggestion. "Well, there are a hell of a lot of people who want to know what's going on in town, and rumors are running rampant. Think hard about blowing the whistle on the little act of social justice I've done here. And let me advise you, kid, that taking away the right to know from the people is NOT a move you want to make in these uncertain times." She nodded at the photograph. "Now take a look at that and tell me that doesn't pique your interest even a little."

"This photo caught my attention," Kenny admitted, showing her the photograph. A smile beamed on Alyssa's face as she recognized her work. "I've only ever seen these kinds of things in movies but this looks real."

"It's pretty convincing, isn't it?" she agreed. "But interesting as it is, there's more." Alyssa tipped her chin at the file folder attached to the newspaper article. "I doubt you've had time to look through all that, but the high level is that I found this on a corpse. The victim had been murdered."

"Murdered?" Kenny repeated.

"There's someone out there who doesn't want this photograph getting out to the public," Alyssa elaborated.

"With all the rumors around town, why wouldn't anyone want something to blame false or not?" Kenny asked.

"Look at the photo again and tell me why. What does that look like to you? Because that's what people are going to think is behind all of these missing hikers."

"That ..." Kenny faltered, unable to believe what he was about to say, "that looks like a zombie."

Dr. Hursch - Resident Evil Outbreak
Annette Birkin - Resident Evil 2
William Birkin - Resident Evil 2
Tyrone Haynes - OC - Hyperactive Hamster of Doom
Phil Barrett - OC - Hyperactive Hamster of Doom
Lawrence and Alicia Wilberforce - OC - Noctorro / Hyperactive Hamster of Doom collab
Alyssa Ashcroft - Resident Evil Outbreak
Ben Bertolucci - Resident Evil 2

Review Responses

Crow T Robot - I think you're right - Billy is a bit too young to be a Colonel. But also consider that at 24, Jill to too young to be a former everything, lol. I'll have to look properly at Billy's official title before being kicked out of the military. Secondly, texting was a thing in the late 90's but back then it was known as instant messaging on those brick phones (perhaps that's what I should have referred to texting as, to more accurately capture the time frame). True, that 1998 might still be a year or so too early, but I justify that at the very least, the rich would be on top of technology before it got more widespread. Thank you for your continued support.