Saturday, July 25th, 1998
Hotel Suite, Apple Inn
Downtown Raccoon City
7:23 am
It had already been just under an hour by the time Cranky opened his eyes from slumber. It wasn't the alarm clock, or a sharp noise that awoke him, but his thoughts. And he knew they wouldn't allow him to get back to sleep. It was for the better, he supposed. He was always an early bird anyway. Memories from last night's soiree in Uptown's Whitchley's district ran through his head; the people he met, the things they said.
And it made him question every breath he took. If what Chief Irons said last night was true, that a virus had leaked into town, was it airborne? Was it behind the rotting arm that a soiree guest was trying to conceal? How did he contract it? Why hadn't mention of this been in any of his research into the city? Right – Irons and Mrs. Birkin had been speaking in hushed tones. Their words weren't meant for him or any other attendee to hear; which meant that the general populace knew nothing about it.
Cranky stood at the window, looking out onto the city streets. They were nearly empty, this early in the morning, save for the occasional car or pedestrian. He then spotted a man glaring up at him from the sidewalk across the street. He was neatly groomed, hair cropped short. Tall, lanky form dressed in a sharp business suit. His face however looked up at Cranky with an expression of profound terror. Bespectacled eyes were wide, hands clenched into tight fists over and over again at his sides. He mouthed silently to Cranky. "Help."
Cranky took a step back away from the window. For a moment, he was unsure of what to do. His instincts told him to stay where he was. He couldn't afford to involve himself in local business anymore than he already had. But his morality screamed at him to go check on the poor soul outside. The deciding factor was when the man outside fell to his knees, hitting the concrete hard. His shoulders bobbed up and down as he sobbed uncontrollably.
"Screw this," Cranky whispered under his breath, and dashed for the door.
He took the stairwell; it would've taken faster to run down the stairs than wait for the elevator. He exited the stairwell and entered the lobby, jogging past reception and out onto the street. The cool morning air felt refreshing on his skin, drying up the layer of condensation Cranky only just realized had collected on his face and arms. He glanced left and right briefly before running across the street to the man, who remained on his knees sobbing. Cranky reached him and squatted down to meet him at eye-level, placing a supporting hand on his shoulder.
"Hey buddy, what's wrong?"
Up close, he could see the man's suit was tattered at the cuffs and lapels. Dirt was smeared on his chest, face, elbows and knees. He looked dehydrated, exhausted, and starved. He was running on fumes, fueled by fear and desperation.
"They're after me," the man whispered in horror. "They're going to kill me. Please, I need somewhere to hide."
"Slow down," Cranky urged. "Who's after you? Why do they want you dead?"
"We thought they sent the Umbrella Special Service to save us, but they were there to terminate us!" he continued sobbing. "We were never supposed to get out … no witnesses …" He stopped talking but Cranky had the feeling he wasn't finished. A gasped breath later, "But I escaped the mansion, spent the last week in the Arklay Forest trying to make my way back here. We have to warn everyone!"
"Warn everyone about what?!" Cranky cried.
"Umbrella is –"
BANG!
Cranky squeezed his eyes shut as he felt hot droplets splash on his face. He opened his eyes and saw that the nameless civilian had been shot in the head. The bullet had entered from one side of his skull and exited on the other, spilling blood and brain matter onto the road, and all over Cranky's face and chest. The man's lifeless body fell to the pavement at Cranky's feet while he stood up, mouth gawking, chest heaving in shock and horror. He took a few steps back slowly and panic set in. He dashed straight for the entrance to the hotel and burst through the doors, startling the receptionist, who was just coming out from the back room. She opened her mouth to scream upon seeing him, but he was quick to speak first, stammering madly.
"S-somebody's been shot!" he shouted. "We gotta call the cops!"
"B-but you," the receptionist stuttered, pointing a shaky finger at him.
"It's not mine," he assured her. "Just call the cops!"
The receptionist sprung into action as Cranky ran back towards the doors, unsure of his motivation. Shock, perhaps? Denial? But what he saw instead brought on a second wave of disbelief. His psyche couldn't handle it anymore and Cranky broke. He leaned forward against the double doors by his forearms.
"No …" Fresh tears spilled from his eyes, mixing with the blood on his face. In the distance, he could hear the receptionist speaking rapidly on the phone.
"We've had a shooting in front of the Apple Inn. Please send someone immediately. One witness, yes. No, it's not me. But he's with me."
"No …" Cranky repeated, feeling sick to his stomach with disbelief.
A large pool of blood stained the pavement where the mysterious man had fallen. But his body was gone.
And the police never came.
Saturday, July 25th, 1998
Holding Cells
Raccoon City Police Precinct
8:55am
It was as if the chaos the slammed the police department from yesterday afternoon had evolved into a lingering, ever-present sense of dread in the musky old precinct the following afternoon. Last night's storm had dissipated by now, coating the city in thin sheet of water, quickly evaporating into the dry mountain air, thanks in part to the bright sun overhead. The humidity soared that morning, and had now lessened to a more bearable state. Still however, Officer Marvin Branagh, seated behind his desk, wiped a hand across his forehead, which up to that point, had sported a coat of beaded sweat.
Officer Rita Wilcox sat in a chair opposite him, holding a white handkerchief to her mouth. Her blue eyes gazed blankly at the tiles beneath her feet, looking like she was about to vomit into it. Beside her, with his arm draped supportively over her shoulder was Officer David McGraw. He was more composed, but equally silent. It was this scene which Kenny interrupted with a soft knock on the door. McGraw looked to Branagh, who nodded his head in approval.
"Come in."
Kenny opened the door slowly and poked his head through. The young intern carried in his hands a collection of file folders, the corners of paper they contained poking through the opening. He entered the office slowly, as if any sudden movement would cause those in the room to snap. Kenny closed the door behind him gently. As soon as it had softly clicked into place into the doorframe, he presented the folders to Officer Branagh.
"Last night's reports, sir," he said, placing the stack neatly on his desk. "They've been time stamped, and signed by Bernice. I've ordered them chronologically, from most recent ..."
"Have a seat, Kenny," Officer Branagh interrupted, motioning to a vacant chair beside Rita.
Kenny didn't have to say anything to know what was going on in the room before he arrived. The three Officers sat unmoving, looking at him from the corners of their eyes as he entered. The tension was so thick, he could have cut it with a knife. It was news and it was going to be bad. He collected himself and accepted the chair, swallowing a lump in his throat. The tension in the air had not gone by unnoticed, even from a lowly intern like himself.
"Sir," Kenny began, "I understand the importance of keeping information confidential. So I apologize if I am interrupting."
"What we have to tell you," Rita began, "affects us as a team. And you are a part of this team. Besides, aren't you here a little early?"
"The STARS," Kenny replied, ignoring her inquiry. "Are they all right?"
Rita swallowed hard, preparing to deliver Kenny the news. Officer McGraw placed a hand upon hers, trying to tell her she didn't have to say it if she wasn't feeling up to it. But she shrugged off his gesture. But Kenny knew she didn't have to say anything, really. Her reaction told him everything he needed to know. It was bad.
"Kenny," she began, "when you're working in this field, you've got to accept that death is part of the job. That's what we do. We put our lives on the line for the innocent on a regular basis."
"How many of them?" he asked, knowing exactly what she was getting at.
"Apart from Rebecca, Bravo didn't make it," Rita continued. "Alpha lost Captain Wesker and Officer Frost. Chris, Jill, Barry, and Brad brought Rebecca back with them."
"Vickers didn't sleep a wink," Officer Branagh added. "He circled the area all night looking for the rest of the team."
Seven deaths on Raccoon's most elite team. The information had a hard time sinking in. Kenny's understanding of the situation was too limited, too narrow to grasp what it meant. He hadn't reacted physically to the news. As the few seconds of silence drew on, Officer McGraw spoke.
"Kenny?"
"A ... are they all right?" he asked in a whisper, unsure of what else to say, "Officer Redfield and the others, I mean."
Rita scratched the back of her head. "Physically speaking, yes. They're all at home resting. But their accounts of the events that transpired ..." She faltered. "I don't know what happened up in the Arklay mountains, but they seem to have gone, for lack of a better word, crazy."
The word hit Kenny hard. Crazy. It wasn't something a regular police officer to afford to be. Their jobs relied on logical, spur of the moment reactions, let alone the STARS, the cream of the crop. But for them to completely betray this logic in a single night ...
"Listen," Rita advised, "the S.T.A.R.S. haven't released an official statement. And based on their initial reports, the officers are nervous just being around them. For the time being, I recommend staying clear of the situation. But as a member of this team, we all feel that it is your right to be in the know. None of this is easy for anyone involved."
"I was talking to the chief today," Officer Branagh continued, "and he suggested you take the day off, Kenny. The atmosphere around here is awkward at best so we think it'd be best if you just stayed away for the day while we sort things out on this end. We've arranged for Officer Ryman to give you a lift home."
"Yes sir," Kenny said, standing from his seat. "I'll head over to my work station and get packed up."
Officer Branagh nodded in agreement and watched Kenny head for the door and exit the office, closing it quietly behind him. "Stay clear of the media in the main hall."
On his way back to his desk, Kenny occasionally passed some of the precinct's officers. Whatever had gripped Rita, and Officers McGraw and Branagh, clearly had the others too. They spoke in hushed volumes and stopped talking all together as he passed them. Some walked hurriedly by, their bodies stiff, barely taking a breath, as if the air itself was poison. The usual buzz of activity was ever present, but the camaraderie was notably absent. It didn't seem like anyone wanted to be in the building that afternoon, and were counting down the minutes until their shift was over.
The atmosphere changed however, as Kenny entered the main hall from the east wing. It was as if yesterday's events were replaying themselves. More media personnel cluttered the main hall, aiming lights and microphones at any passerby, throwing a barrage of questions at any poor soul to get mixed up in their path. He watched as Officer Lonsdale got cornered by a group of them.
"Is it true that the reserve branch of the team embarked on a rescue mission last night? Can you update the public on the mission status?"
"What has the team found in the mountains? Can we finally put an end to the rumors of monsters in the forest?"
"What does the fate of the Ecliptic Express mean for the future line of such models, and the plummeting stocks of the Lonsdale Corporation?"
He knew it was their job to ask these kinds of questions, but Kenny felt a pang of anger on Officer Lonsdale's behalf the moment the questions started getting personal. He seemed to take it in stride however, by simply shielding himself from their glaring camera flashes and mumbling, "I cannot provide any answers for your questions at this time." Kenny on the other hand, modest in stature, dressed in civilian clothes and clearly younger than most of the precinct's staff, looked unassuming enough and was able to dodge most of the reporters and cameramen as he made his way back to his desk.
The events over the past 48 hours were piling on and beginning to overwhelm him. The initial events were confusing at first, with the missing train and the escaped convict. But following that, Alpha's return from the Bravo mission rescue, the stories they were telling, the mysterious photograph of what appeared to be a zombie - too much was happening at the same time for all of it to be a coincidence.
Something was happening in Raccoon City - his instincts were screaming at him to do something. But what? And who would believe him?
Saturday, July 25th, 1998
Interrogation Room, East Wing
Raccoon City Police Precinct
10:38am
Cranky stared angrily at the Officer asking him questions that he'd already answered innumerable times before since his ordeal began earlier in the morning. A young blonde guy, California surfer styled locks told him that the Officer would be more comfortable on a beach with a surfboard, high as a kite than as a junior officer in a police force in some restricted mountain community. He glanced at the Officer's name tag.
"Listen, Officer McGraw," Cranky nearly hissed, "I'm telling you that the blood you found on me belongs to the guy I saw killed before my eyes. You've taken samples and you'll find that what I'm saying is the truth."
The blond, youthful officer sat himself down comfortably across the table from Cranky and looked at him curiously, pausing before saying anything. His body language told Cranky that if he believed anything, it wasn't without some suspicion.
"We'll be keeping an eye out for any missing persons report over the next 48 hours," Officer McGraw assured him, "and cross checking those with the details of the individual you described. "But I'll let you in on a little secret." The corner of his mouth lifted slightly upward into half a shit-eating grin. "Dead people don't get up and walk away."
Cranky buried his fingertips into his scalp, tufts of red hair protruding from between his fingers. "I know what I'm saying sounds crazy," he admitted through gritted teeth. "But I am not crazy. I know what I saw."
For a moment, it looked as if Officer McGraw was going to sympathize with him. He pulled out a chair opposite Cranky and sat down in front of the confused man, mirroring his posture, hands clasped on the table in front of him.
"Crazy," Officer McGraw said, almost absent mindedly. He twiddled his thumbs for a second before speaking again. "You wouldn't be the first person in here spouting stories like that in the last few weeks."
Cranky's eyes widened with hope. He looked at the Officer, mouth agape, struggling to find the words. "Y...you mean, you believe me?"
Officer McGraw shrugged, revealing to Cranky the youthful energy and innocence the cop likely possessed in his younger years. "You could say that," he admitted. "But here's where it gets a little weirder. We tested the blood sample taken off your clothes."
"And?!" Cranky demanded, clenching his fists as he leaned forward, closer to the officer.
"And forensics have determined that the blood belongs to you, Mr. Crankurt."
Cranky didn't know whether or not the Officer was pulling his leg. All logic told him so but the expression the cop wore bolstered the doubt at the back of his mind. His brows were furrowed, lips pressed into a thin, straight line below his nose. When he figured it wasn't intended as a ruse, but a legitimate response - however full of shit - Cranky nearly lost it.
"That's what they told you?!" he cried, barely able to contain himself. Officer McGraw held a hand out, hoping the gesture would remind Cranky of where he was, and what would happen to him if he lost control of his emotions. Thankfully, it did not come to that; this time.
"That is indeed what was clearly stated in their report," Officer McGraw explained slowly, trying to calm him. "Now before you go off losing it, I need you to listen to me."
A tense silence followed as he paused, giving Cranky a chance to respond. The large red-headed man remained silent, and nodded slowly, indicating for the cop to continue talking.
"Like I said earlier, you're not the first to come in here spouting off strange stories. There are two things that concern me here; firstly, you're the first out-of-towner whose accounts parallel those of the locals. Second, that the nature of yours indicates a ... more disturbing direction these tales are taking."
"There are stories that predate mine."
"That's right," Officer McGraw said, "and they started out as missing hikers, followed by rumors of a cannibalistic cult living in the Arklay Mountains. And now you're talking about dead bodies disappearing into thin air. Where is it you are from, Mr. Crankurt?"
"I just came into town two days ago," Cranky replied, "from the UK."
The cop tilted his head in curiosity. "Britain?"
"I live there," Cranky clarified, "but originally from right here in the United States - hence the accent, or lack thereof."
" And what is your business in Raccoon City?"
"Just here to see the sights," Cranky said simply. "Heard that the trails in these parts are the best in the country. Had to check them out for myself."
He was just about to follow Officer McGraw on his tangent, but quickly recognized that the good cop was trying to turn the conversation into a more casual manner so that he would let his guard down, volunteering more information to the inquisitive policeman.
Swinging the conversation back to a direction that was more in line with his interest, Cranky repeated simply, "You said the blood tests ran on my shirt reported that the blood was mine."
"That's correct," Officer McGraw conceded.
"It was a hell of a lot of blood," Cranky countered.
"Your wounds would seem to suggest a likely source," the policeman said, nodding towards the scabbing on his knuckles and cut lip.
"These wounds are days old and scabbing over," he splayed his hands down on the table. " The attack was barely a few hours ago and the blood was fresh. I'm telling you, it wasn't mine!"
"Mr. Crankurt," Officer McGraw began, drawing air between his teeth trying to contain his frustration, but was cut off.
"You know as well as I do," Cranky hissed, "the blood isn't mine. And if you're telling me it's not, then something incredibly fucking fishy is going on behind those closed doors of yours."
"That's enough!" Officer McGraw said with finality, shutting down the conversation. He glared angrily at Cranky, who only stared back with defiance. It didn't look like they were going to leave the room in agreement, but Officer McGraw was tired of entertaining the detainee. He spoke again, calmer and quieter this time, hoping to ease the tension.
"I've taken note of your report. There is a secondary statement we still need to take, from the receptionist at the Apple Inn. Until then, we have no further questions and you're free to go."
Main Hall, Raccoon Police Precinct
1:46pm
Kenny arrived back at his work station and began organizing the stacks of loose-leaf papers into their respective piles. Rita and the others told him that Officer Ryman would be there to fetch him home, but Kenny knew from experience that the man would be late, so he decided to take the extra time go clean things up for the next week. As he was reviewing the piles of papers to ensure nothing was miscategorized, he noticed again the photograph that he'd discussed with the Raccoon Times reporter, Alyssa Ashcroft, in the "to be shredded" pile.
"This needs to be in the evidence room," he told himself quietly. "How did it even get out here, anyway?" Kenny separated the photograph from the pile and using it, created a new one. "For filing."
Normally, he would have finished skimming through the pile already, but catching one mistake destroyed his confidence in the job that he'd done, so he continued flipping through the "to be shredded" pile. But it didn't take him long to find a second document, closer to the bottom of the pile. And seeing it made his gut sink. His lips moved along with the word as he read.
Blood work produced results of an individual not in police records. Please escalate to state-level authorities to determine if a match exists. Report #19980725-0043, File ID #3944 - Crankurt, Craig-Doale.
Kenny flipped to the attached sheet and saw the beaten-up face of a man staring back at him from the upper left corner; a man that he'd recognized at the soiree the night before, the one who'd watched over him while he was drunk off his rocker. It concerned him that the man had mentioned he'd just got into town, and already had a file with the Raccoon Police.
"Damn it," he said, cursing himself under his breath after tossing the document into the filing pile. "Two mistakes in one pile. I'm getting sloppy. They would've fired me for this."
He finished going through the remaining documents in the shredding pile and after concluding that all errors had been counted for, he scooped up the two misplaced documents in his hand and stood up from his desk. Officer Ryman probably wouldn't be here for another couple of minutes anyway, so he chose to chance the trip to the West Wing evidence room to get the misplaced documents filed away.
It didn't once occur to Kenny, however, that he hadn't made any mistakes that morning in sorting the documents. He was good at his job, and a perfectionist - and the entire precinct knew it. Nor did he notice, the shadowy figure of Chief Irons glaring angrily at him from the second story mezzanine, as he made his way towards the evidence room in the west wing.