Sunday, July 26, 1998
A Day In Raccoon (Motel)
Raccoon City Outskirts
7:22am
Cranky sat by the window of the dimly lit motel room that he had managed to book at a moment's notice late last night. Given the assassination attempt that he'd survived yesterday by a narrow stroke of luck, the Apple Inn was no longer safe. In fact, without knowing just how far the corruption in Raccoon City reached, he wasn't going to take any chances and left the inner city all together and headed for the city limits, which was where he found himself now. The aptly named "A Day In Raccoon" motel was the only listing he gathered from a phone book at the library that didn't ask him for any identification upon booking a room indefinitely, and accepted cash with no questions asked. It wouldn't surprise Cranky if the motel was actually a front for a drug smuggling ring, but in his desperation, he wasn't going to ask any questions either. And he wasn't ready to leave Raccoon City.
The rain thundered down heavily from the dark gray skies above, large drops beating violently against the window. The room was lit by a single bedside lamp in the far corner. In front of him sat a greasy plate that once held two cold breakfast sausages, a fried egg, and a hash brown that he collected at the breakfast buffet in the dining room. All that remained now was a film of oil and faint streaks of runny egg yolks that he wasn't able to mop up with the slice of toast before fully consuming it. A large mug of hot, black coffee was clasped between Cranky's hands as he stared blankly out the window into the abnormally dark morning. Strangely, the weather did nothing to compromise his determination to complete his mission objective. Everything that had stood in his way so far, he saw them as challenges; nothing that he couldn't overcome. It had been nine years since he'd seen the target, and Cranky wasn't sure he would be able to recognize the individual but alas, he had. There was no mistaking it. And now the only thing left to do, though easier said than done, was to close in. He could no longer afford to get caught up in any more of Uptown Raccoon's irrelevant drama.
What the weather did, however, was try to convince him that he needed the day off. It had been non-stop action for Cranky since he set foot into town just 3 days ago, though to him it had seemed like a whole month. It had barely been an hour since he'd woken up but already the constant drum of raindrops against the single pane windows, the warm glow of the lamp and the hot mug of coffee between his hands were just shy of putting him right back to sleep. Cranky rubbed his thumbs against his closed eyes to relieve the creeping drowsiness and picked up the slightly damp, folded newspaper from underneath the breakfast plate. Looks like the weather was winning – today was probably going to be a lazy, indoors Sunday after all.
The front page image of the Raccoon Times Sunday edition was a large photograph depicting a group of special unit officers with uniforms bearing the town's police department insignia, shielding their faces with their hands and coats. They were flanked on either side by regular uniformed officers, doing their best to fend off other photographers and the media in a forceful, but non-violent manner. The foremost officer was a pretty woman with chin-length dark brown hair, striking blue eyes, and wearing a blue beret. One thing Cranky noticed about the woman's features that didn't seem to match were the dark under-eye circles, like she hadn't slept all night.
"Raccoon's Finest?" the headlines read. "STARS return from failed mission, blue herb pollen intoxication suspected."
The headlines did their job and captured Cranky's attention. Before he knew it, his eyes were reading every word of the article on the front page, absorbing every available detail from what read like a defamation piece. For a newspaper, the Raccoon City Times, or at the very least, this article, read like a borderline opinion piece and not an unbiased piece that he had come to expect. The local branch of the Special Tactics and Rescue Squad were questioned under thinly veiled accusations of unprofessionalism and neglect, resulting in the deaths of 7 of their members, including their Captain. No wonder the woman in the photo looked like she hadn't slept.
Having reached the end of the page, Cranky flipped it to continue reading the article but was greeted with a double page spread advertisement of a general anesthetic spray in the form of a white pressurized can. The label sported a light green medical cross and stood above text that he assumed was the name of the product – "Cinatiropa First Aid – Life Safe" – punctuated by a hexagonal logo made up of alternating red and white triangles … a logo that read, "Umbrella".
"Umbrella …" Cranky mouthed silently. There they were again. He momentarily forgot about the story he'd been reading mere seconds ago and flipped the page again, this time looking for advertisements and found the usual suspects; realtors, lawyer services, driver training and insurance companies, but at least an eighth of the ads shared the Umbrella logo. His mind flashed back to yesterday morning to the man who was shot through the head via sniper rifle right in front of him. The very last statement out of the man's mouth before his life was so abruptly ended had to do with Umbrella. And the night Mrs. Wade bailed him out of prison, she said …
Everything was coming together too fast in that instant for Cranky to comprehend. He reached for his cell phone and dialed Barbara Wade's number, without taking into account what time it was and that she would likely still be asleep until her voice groggily answered the phone after a few rings.
"… Hello?"
"Barbara, it's Cranky," he replied. "I'm sorry for calling so early, I didn't realize the time. But I do have a couple questions I was hoping you'd be able to help me with."
"Mr. Crankurt, do we have to do this now?"
"A favor, please," Cranky pleaded. "It will only take a moment of your time." Mrs. Wade gave an audible sigh of frustration on the other end, but reluctantly agreed.
"Fine … make it quick, though. I'm getting right back to bed after this."
"The night you bailed me out of prison," he began, wasting no more time, "as we were walking out of the precinct, you mentioned your husband and that he is no longer with us. I apologize if I am being insensitive but could tell me how you lost him? No need to go into details."
"W… why are you asking me this now?" Mrs. Wade asked, disturbed by the nature and timing of his question.
"You said he was a journalist barking up an Umbrella-funded tree," Cranky pressed. "Barbara did your husband die of natural causes or was he killed?"
The only response Cranky got was the clatter of the phone on the other end as Mrs. Wade hung up on him. He understood that his question may have been insensitive in nature but he did not expect to get hung up on. But her reaction told him exactly what he needed to know; he had hit a nerve. He headed over to his duffel bag and pulled out his notebook and pen and began making notes.
Journalist killed – Mr. Wade
Scientist shot – evidence removed, blood test results falsified
Missing witness – a hotel receptionist
Witness assassination attempt - me
And the only thing linking all these individuals together was their proximity to the Umbrella Corporation and/or witnesses to their attempts of covering something up. The phone vibrated against the hard surface of the table, grabbing Cranky's attention. He unlocked it to see a new text message from Mrs. Wade.
"Sorry, I wasn't hanging up on you. You just never know who could be listening. Coffee?"
XXXXX
Sunday, July 26, 1998
Unknown Location
Early Morning
Kenny opened his mouth to scream but no sound came out. He dashed over to the crying woman who begged for her life but he fell right through her. The woman's sobs permeated the air as she held her little boy close. Her hair was disheveled, and scuff marks adorned her bare arms. Blood and spit spilled from a busted lip as she cried, on her knees, in front of a small group of armed, armored soldiers standing over her. While none of them had their rifles aimed directly at her, their size and postures suggested a presence that threatened her safety. Her little boy in contrast had his arms wrapped tightly around her with his back turned to the soldiers, whispering calmly into her ear.
"Are they gone, yet, momma?" he said quietly enough for Kenny to hear. But she only pulled him in tighter, clutching the back of his head, tufts of hair sticking out from between her fingers, as she sobbed harder.
"Please," the woman begged, "I don't know what you're looking for but we don't have it! Please just leave us alone."
"I'm not asking again," one of the soldiers said coldly, "the chip."
Instead of cooperating, the woman suddenly sprang up to her feet, gripping her child and bee-lined it for the front door. The soldiers reacted instinctively and raced after her.
"Leave her alone!" Kenny cried and threw himself onto the back of the closest soldier – except that his body passed through the soldier and landed on the floor. He brought himself to his knees, raising his palms to his face, realizing in that instant that he was lucid dreaming. But, why this? Whose memories were these?
His attention snapped back to the scene at present, from which he saw the soldier reach out and grabbed the woman by the hair, and violently tugged her backwards towards him. Acting on maternal instinct, she released her son, who stood at the doorway with an expression of bewilderment on his tear streaked face as he watched his mother allow herself to get tossed around like a rag doll between three large, armored soldiers now that her child was at a safer distance. She screamed in terror, as they soldiers struck her in the head, jaw, chest, but she remained standing and absorbed their blows. Resolve was written all over her face; she would not fall until her little boy had run far enough away.
"Bitch can really take a hit, huh?" one of the soldiers asked, jabbing his elbow into the side of one of his comrades. The woman swiped a forearm across a busted lip as a statement to her defiance. But the comrade was in no joking mood, nor did he have the patience anymore to entertain her. He unholstered his handgun and aimed it at her.
"This ends now."
"No, please, NO!" Kenny cried, despite knowing he could not be seen nor heard. He woke up from the nightmare in his bed, limbs thrashing. The sheets had been thrown off the mattress and lay crumbled on the floor at the foot of the bed. He sat up and hugged his knees, cold sweat coating his chest, forehead and back. The darkness slowly faded, replaced by the dimly moonlit room, and along with it, his anxiety. His chest heaved with deep breaths that became shallower as the seconds ticked by and his consciousness settled back into reality.
"Dream," he whispered to assure himself, "get a grip."
Looking to the window, he could see that it was going to be a bleak day. Thick, dark gray clouds covered the skies, shedding torrents of rain that clattered against the window. A part of him was relieved that today was a Sunday; no summer school classes at Raccoon City Secondary, and no intern shifts at the precinct. He would not have to brave what could potentially turn into a summer storm. Enough had happened during the week that his brain almost needed this day off to process what exactly had transpired and what it all meant. Officer Ryman advised him not to look too deeply into it, and rightly so. It was beyond his pay grade but Kenny didn't like being kept in the dark.
That would have to wait for the moment, however. Since Bravo Team embarked on their mission, the strange events started occurring on a daily basis. The ensuing media chaos at the precinct, the infected guest at the Truman home soiree, the results of Alpha Team's rescue mission, and finding police evidence of what appeared to be a walking corpse … the mystery had completely consumed Kenny's life to the point where he'd barely been able to tend to his day-to-day activities.
Adrenaline still pumping through his veins from the nightmare, Kenny knew there was no getting back to sleep. So without bothering to change out of his sleepwear, he threw his legs over the edge of the bed and rubbed the morning fog from his vision, and produced a giant yawn while doing so. He trudged out of the bedroom over to the front door where his shoes lay strewn feet apart from each other, and slipped into them. He grabbed the mail keys off the hook and stepped out, closing the door behind him as he made his way downstairs to the building's mailboxes. Kenny didn't care much for the opinions of his neighbours anyway, so he couldn't care less what state they saw him in.
Kenny stabbed the mail key into the keyhole, twisted and pulled. The mailbox door opened to reveal a stack of grocery store flyers and a single Hallmark envelope with the sender's address scribbled on the upper left hand corner – The Raccoon City Police Department. Curious, he pulled it out and opened the envelope, which contained a folded card. Inside, written in fine calligraphy script, it said:
Dear Kenneth Aaron Feng,
The honor of your presence is requested at the Celebration of Life for the deceased.
Captain Enrico Marini
Captain Albert Wesker
Forest Speyer
Kenneth Sullivan
Richard Aiken
Kevin Dooley
Date: July 27th, 1998, 14:00
Location: St. Michael's Parish
Snacks and refreshments will be served after the ceremony. Please RSVP at the Raccoon City Precinct front desk, or by calling the main line at 555-3982 by July 27th at noon.
Yours,
Chief Brian Irons,
The Raccoon City Police Department
Kenny's heart sank into his stomach reading the name of the deceased. He hadn't even had time to think about who they'd lost. His brain knew it, but his heart had no time to process it. These 6 members of the Raccoon City STARS unit, people who he idolized and befriended, who he'd organized meetings for and delivered coffee to just days ago … were gone forever.
The realization hit Kenny like a truck and the next thing he knew, he found himself standing on the balcony with a cigarette smoking by itself in between his fingers. So consumed he was with the harsh new reality, he didn't remember closing the mailbox, taking the elevator back up to his apartment, stepping onto the balcony or lighting that cigarette. He didn't know where that hot steaming cup of coffee came from, sitting on the outdoor patio table. Considering it had barely been twenty-four hours since the dead were confirmed, the fact that a memorial service was already scheduled, organized and invitation sent was impressive. But Kenny supposed with the Chief at the helm, things got done fast.
His thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of the phone, snapping Kenny back to reality. But who would be calling so early in the morning?
"Hello?"
"Hey, Kenny, it's Lisa." Hartley, from school, but what was she doing – "I'm downstairs with Phil. Can you buzz us in? Brought you some lunch. Figured you could use some."
"Lunch?" Kenny asked, bewildered. "What time is it?"
"Quarter to one. What, did you just wake up or something?"
"N-no," he stammered, "I was just …" he glanced over to the balcony where his coffee, that was what Kenny could have sworn was only moments ago was piping hot, had since gone cold. "I was just thinking." So deep he'd been in shock that he'd lost all track of time.
"So are you gonna let us in or what?"
"Sorry, come on up." Dialing 9 before hanging up, Kenny moved over to the door and unlocked it. Lisa and Phil could let themselves in without making him get up.
But get up he did anyway, as Kenny next found himself sitting upright on the sofa, stuffing a cheeseburger into his face. Aside from losing complete track of time, he'd apparently taken no notice of how hungry he was either. The fries and soda, sitting on the coffee table, were half consumed. Phil and Lisa, Raccoon City Secondary's all-star quarterback and the daughter of arguably the wealthiest family in town respectively, sat flanking Kenny, gawking with awe at how much food a small, squirrelly kid could put away so quickly. Kenny punctuated the end of the meal by producing a gargantuan belch that even impressed a big guy like Phil.
"Lisa was right to be concerned," he noted. "You're not eating."
"I just forgot," Kenny admitted. "As much as I love you guys swinging by to bring me food, I'm pretty sure you're not here to watch me gorge myself."
"I saw the Sunday Times," Lisa elaborated, producing a folded up sheet of newspaper from her pocket. "Front page." She unfolded and flattened it on the coffee table in front of Kenny.
"We figured you don't subscribe to the paper," Phil continued, "and wouldn't have seen it."
The front page featured an unflattering photo of the police chief looking nervous and sweaty beneath harsh lights, standing behind the podium in what Kenny recognized as the press room in the East Wing of the police station. Lined up vertically beside that were civilian photos of the deceased STARS members. Headlines read, in bold, black print: Raccoon's Finest? STARS return from failed mission, blue herb pollen intoxication suspected. Deep inside Kenny, grief transformed into rage that surfaced quickly as he began to tremble.
"I was there for this," he said. "The media stormed the precinct yesterday morning. I wasn't in the press room for the conference but I know Chief Irons wouldn't just feed his best men to the media like this. How dare they?!" There was no longer any attempt to control the tears that now flowed freely down his face. "Their bodies aren't even cold yet. They don't deserve this."
Phil and Lisa shared an uneasy glance.
"It's all over the news," Phil explained, "and the RPD is in full on damage control mode. It seems as though they're trying to drive a wedge between themselves and the STARS unit."
"Safety with distance," Lisa continued.
"What?" Kenny's tears stopped, now replaced by a new wave of shock. "That can't be true. If anything, the RPD would be their greatest backing in …"
Lisa silenced him by turning on the television. The dark screen blinked to life midway through a recording of the news conference held at the RPD the day prior, likely the same one from which the front page photo was taken.
"We are taking every measure to ensure the mental health of the remaining STARS members," the Chief droned, as if reading off a teleprompter, "so that their testimonies can be relied upon to give us accurate insight on the events on the evenings of July 23rd and 24th. I have no further information to divulge at this time."
The screen cut back to a well-dressed news anchor.
"Disturbing comments from the police chief indeed," she said, "but our thoughts and prayers are with the survivors, and the families of the victims. Joining us now is former RPD public relations director, Geoffrey Harkin. It is a pleasure having you with us this afternoon, Mr. Harkin."
The camera panned over to an equally smartly dressed graying man in a pin-striped suit wearing a friendly smile.
"Thank you for having me, today."
"We were hoping, given the decades you served with the RPD, that you'd be able to give us some insight as to what could have possibly elicited such a response from the Chief," the anchor continued. "Most people are likely thinking, that as an elite branch of the RPD, the STARS should be backed one-hundred percent by them. Could you enlighten us as to why that may not be the case today?"
"Well Suzanne, despite the STARS being a branch of the RPD, they do not belong exclusively under RPD jurisdiction. STARS is a nation-wide organization and every group needs to adhere to federal and state operational guidelines, as well as county law – and in the case of the Raccoon City STARS, Arklay County laws. With so many hands on this one unit, it's not quite clear at this point who is responsible for what. And we're not talking about failed mission objectives; we're facing two consecutive missions resulting in utter disaster, and the lives of half the unit. In my opinion, it shouldn't come as no surprise that the RPD would be trying to shed themselves of as much involvement in the case as they can."
Kenny could take no more and seized the remove from Lisa's hands and shut off the television.
"That slime ball," Kenny spat bitterly. "So he is feeding the STARS to the wolves after all …" He picked up the invitation to the Celebration of Life for the fallen STARS members and showed it to Phil and Lisa. "I got this is the mail today."
"The post office doesn't work weekends, Kenny …" Phil said cautiously.
"Then someone stuck it in my mailbox but that's not the point, Phil!" Kenny exclaimed. "Chief Irons is going on record trying to say the RPD had nothing to do with this, and yet he's sending out memorial invites to the precinct staff and signing his name on it? That two-faced mother-"
"You need to calm down," Phil said sternly. "I was hesitant about checking up on you but I'm glad Lisa convinced me to."
"Couldn't afford to have my parents suspect I was sneaking out to meet Jack, anyway," she admitted. "I know this is a lot of information to handle at once, and you're probably emotionally confused right now. And that's okay. You just need to know we're here for you."
"Thanks," Kenny said hesitantly, "but it's not about me. I'm angry for the STARS … angry at the RPD …"
"Politics, man," Phil sighed, standing up from his seat and lumbered over to the balcony, wistfully overlooking the gray, depressing weather. "I thought it was bad with Julie and the girls at school. Doesn't really change when you grow up, does it?"
"This is one controversy that's gonna be hard to recover from," Lisa agreed. She turned to Kenny. "Maybe you should just finish up your work experience hours for graduation and get out of there. I've got a feeling you don't want to be around for whatever happens next."
XXXXX
Sunday, July 26, 1998
Grill 13 Diner, Raccoon City Branch
11:16 am
"Umbrella?"
Cranky's jaw fell open with disbelief. Barbara Wade sat across him in the diner's booth, mug of black coffee between her hands looking like she'd just got out of bed – which was literally what she'd done when he called her earlier that morning. Beyond the windows, silhouettes of passers-by could be seen shuffling quickly to avoid the rain.
"Whatever you're doing," Barbara warned in hushed tones, "you need to stop. They've already tried to kill you."
"I'm looking for someone who could be in trouble," Cranky replied stubbornly, "and what you told me happened to your husband doesn't make me feel any better."
"Luanne doesn't know," Barbara said of her daughter, "she thinks that's all it was – an automobile accident."
"… and not a targeted hit." Cranky took another swig of his coffee.
"Umbrella isn't just based in Raccoon City," she continued, "they run this place. Pharmaceutical companies don't get this powerful just by selling over-the-counter pills so Adam got curious, found a lead, and chased it. They took us down hard, and fast. I just happened to be in the car at the time. No warnings. The next thing I knew, I was waking up in the hospital to a dead husband and devastated daughter."
Cranky eyed the morning paper, thinking deeply. He took notice of the Chief's photograph, the sheen of sweat coating this forehead, and wondered what the source was of all the pressure he was under in that photograph.
"Did you try taking your case to the police?" Cranky asked.
"They wouldn't touch it," Barbara replied. "Said they'd already looked into it and it was an automobile accident. Case closed. I told them that when people die in car-crashes, it's uncommon for the cause of death to be a bullet to the brain. I was kicked out before I could say another word."
She literally couldn't say another word as the server approached their booth with a fresh pot of coffee. "How are we doing for refills?" she asked cheerily. Both patrons eagerly slide their mugs across the table to her. After the server provided them with another fresh batch of coffee, she moved along to other tables, once again leaving the pair to continue their dark conversation.
"So you're sure your husband was shot?"
"I was there," Barbara insisted, "I know what I saw before the crash. Maybe it's a good thing the police wouldn't handle my case. Can't have Umbrella thinking I've retained any memories from that day."
Elbows on the table, Cranky dug his fingertips into his temples, trying to grasp what he was being told. A seemingly harmless drug manufacturer ran this small Midwestern town out of the public eye, and had the means to hire hit-men. Barbara Wade, despite possessing a close social ranking to that of the city's most powerful, still fell victim to them.
And then Cranky remembered what he overheard at the Uptown soiree two nights ago; a conversation between the police chief and an Umbrella scientist about a leaked virus and debating where the responsibility lay. He assumed back then that the two were old friends or social rivals working together, but with the revelation he received from Barbara about Umbrella's reach in Raccoon City, Cranky was convinced that Annette Birkin and Brian Irons could have very well been on the same payroll. He was Umbrella's connection to the Raccoon Police Department.
Noticing Cranky's facial expressions as all the pieces started falling into place, Barbara broke their extended moment of silence. "The gears in your head are working so hard, I can almost see steam coming out of your ears."
"I think the Chief of Police is an Umbrella employee."
"SHH!" Barbara shushed him loudly, looked around nervously, and continued at a lower volume. "Not so damn loud."
Cranky reached into his pocket and pulled out his notebook, adding to what was already written.
(?) Journalist killed – Mr. Adam Wade – RPD won't investigate
7/24 – Umbrella Scientist and Police Chief mention spilled virus Uptown soiree
7/25 - Scientist shot – evidence removed, blood test results falsified
Missing witness – a hotel receptionist
Witness assassination attempt - me
7/26 – …
He wasn't going to record Barbara's name and risk a paper trail leading back to her. Instead, he once again took notice of the Sunday paper and presented it to her.
"What are your thoughts on this?" he asked, running a finger along the sub-heading. "'Blue Herb Pollen Intoxication Suspected.' "
"I read the article. It sounds like the media are trying to discredit the surviving STARS members by implying that instead of going off and completing their mission, they got high, got half of themselves killed, and came back with stories of monsters in the woods."
"Two nights in a row," Cranky added. "That sort of behavior we can expect from bored teenagers, but elite military combatants? Is there a history of substance abuse within the STARS unit?"
"Not to my knowledge," Barbara admitted, "but herb usage is a far cry from substance abuse, and it's common around these parts since they grow naturally here. The blue variety – and you'll forgive me if I don't recall the official scientific name – can be used as a recreational drug, but when processed, can be turned into a type of anti-venom. Given the nature of their work, it doesn't surprise me that the STARS would test positive for blue herb pollen."
"It's strange that overnight, the STARS survivors are being ridiculed by the community they protect. And the organization that created them is downplaying the survivors' accounts of what happened."
"UM-BREL-LA," Barbara mouthed silently to him. "The names of the deceased, medical results of the survivors, the stories they're spouting off, everything is being reported by the media and making the STARS look indistinguishable from the addicts that populate downtown. Privacy be damned."
"With all due respect," Cranky said, "I don't get why they didn't just send hit men after the survivors like they did with your husband and tried to do with me."
"The STARS are too high profile," Barbara explained, "People would be asking questions if they were all off-ed after returning from a succession of failed missions. But you and me?" She pointed at herself and then at Cranky. "You're a foreign tourist, and I'm an old downtown broad adjusting to life in uptown. Nobody would miss us."
Cranky let the realization sink in, just how much danger he'd find himself in if he continued on his mission to acquire his target and get out of the city. But what other choice was there?