A fishing line lofted out over the glassy surface of Victory Lake, the bobber creating a circle of ripples as it hit the water with a soft plunk. Barry Burton watched the concentric circles get bigger and bigger as they emanated from where the red-and-white ball sat half submerged. It was his usual summer spot – along the southwest shore near the head of the Circular River, where the bank dropped off sharply and provided enough depth to keep the water at the cool temperature trout seemed to prefer.

He was surprised he hadn't seen anyone else out over the hour he'd been there. It was a bit early for canoers, but there was almost always at least one or two other early birds trying to outwit the fish. Not today though. Oh well, thought Barry. Their loss.

He wondered if it had anything to do with the animal attacks lately. Apparently there'd been another two nights ago. Kathy, his wife, had made a bit of a deal about it when he was leaving the house. Victory Lake was only a few miles north of town, and concerningly close to where one of the hikers had been found. But he'd managed to convince her that if he'd made it out of Beirut and Desert storm alright, a few wild dogs wouldn't be a problem. Besides, he hadn't had a real chance to go fishing since the girls had gotten out of school for the summer. Barry scratched at his reddish-brown beard with his free hand. He wasn't terribly worried. Nonetheless, the weight of the large .357 revolver on his hip was still reassuring.

Nothing was biting yet. Barry reeled in the line and replaced his bait before casting in a slightly different spot, close to where a large elm bough shaded the water.

Suddenly something didn't feel right.

The chirping birds and singular, honking goose had stopped making any noise, and the air felt incredibly still. Barry turned slowly to see if he could identify what or who had shown up. It would be hard to pick out anything among the dense foliage.

What was probably only a handful of seconds felt like an eternity as he watched and waited in silence.

A twig cracked. Barry whipped his head around in the direction of the sound and caught a glimpse of movement less than a hundred yards down shore.

For once, let my wife be wrong about something…

He switched the fishing rod to his other hand and carefully unsnapped the leather strap securing his revolver in its holster. Whatever had moved did so again, shaking a small sapling in the process. The leaves shook and rustled, almost as if…

A brown shape leapt out onto the silt and Barry almost tripped backwards in surprise. It was just a deer – a doe specifically, and not even a big one. Barry swore under his breath as the doe calmly sauntered away.

"You're getting soft, old man," the thirty-eight year old chided out loud, trying to get his heart rate back down to normal. The birds were back at it again. Barry felt dumb for getting spooked so easily and, deciding he'd had enough of the outdoors for one day, reeled his line back in and grabbed the old tackle box and thermos by his feet. Oh well. Kathy would probably be overjoyed that they could start preparing for company sooner.

The trail back to his truck was wide and he took it at a leisurely pace, trying not to think too hard about having let a deer freak him out. It was embarrassing, honestly. Even so, he couldn't help but constantly scan his surroundings with a suspicious gaze, ears focusing on any sound that seemed out of place.

He reached the truck without further incident, the bright red of the restored '68 Chevy spattered with specks of drying mud from the drive up. Once his fishing gear was locked inside the toolbox, Barry sat in the driver's seat and went to swap his silty rubber boots for cleaner shoes that weren't going to mess up the truck's interior. That's when he noticed the other boot prints around the vehicle in the soft dirt. They hadn't been there when he'd arrived, and there were a lot of them. No other vehicles were parked in the pullout. Barry looked around but could see no other signs of whoever had left them. Maybe Fish and Wildlife stopped by, checked out my truck, and left. The tracks did look like they could have been from some sort of patrol or combat boot. He shrugged. It was probably nothing to get worried about.

He started the truck and put it in drive, giving the area one last glance. Don't be so paranoid. He sighed and shook his head as the truck began to roll forward.

As soon as he was out of sight, three dark-clad figures slunk out of the tree line. They silently crossed the road and kept going, vanishing as quickly as they had appeared.

Emmy's Diner was about as busy as it ever was on a weekday morning. A couple bleary-eyed truckers from the fueling station next door sipped from steaming cups of coffee at the bar, and a young couple – likely from out of town – laughed quietly at something as they studied their menus. Multiple vintage neon signs and the bright white and red interior of the greasy spoon only added to the retro feel. Emmy herself wiped tirelessly at the main countertop with a wet rag. She looked up as the bells above the entrance jangled, announcing another customer. Chris Redfield walked through the door and gave a quick wave, using his other hand to push his aviators away from his eyes onto the top of his head.

"Chris!" greeted the middle-aged woman with a tired smile. "You skip town or something? I feel like I haven't seen you in forever."

He gave her a lopsided grin. "I didn't realize you considered a week an eternity. I was in Minneapolis visiting my sister."

"You've gotta bring her around more often. The kid's a hoot."

"You only think so because she makes fun of me more than you do." He looked around. "You seen a guy hanging around here by himself, a little shady? Kind of a pencil-neck?"

"Hey, I'm right here jackass."

Chris looked to his left.

Bill Rabbitson stood up from his booth and turned so he was face-to-face with Chris. His serious demeanor lasted less than a second before he couldn't maintain the façade and laughed, clapping his friend's shoulder in greeting. "How's it going, ya lug?"

"Living the dream. Good to see you, man."

"You too. It's been too long."

Bill sat back down and Chris followed suit, his jeans squeaking against the red polyester cushion. Emmy swung by with two cups of coffee, both black, and headed back to shout their food orders to her husband in the kitchen.

The old friends, despite both being in their mid-twenties, couldn't have seemed any more different. Chris was all lean muscle and natural tan, in combat boots and a slightly-too-tight tee shirt that helped sell his (mostly) unintentional action hero persona. Bill, on the other hand, looked like an accountant or bank clerk in his nicely tucked button-up and thick rimmed glasses. It was entirely by accident that the two natives of Truckee, California and high school classmates had ended up in the same city halfway across the country, and for entirely different reasons. Billy had gotten a research position with the Umbrella Corporation – a large pharmaceutical company that had set up the lab and production plant responsible for taking Raccoon from sleepy mountain village to thriving urban sprawl – only a few months before Chris was hired on to STARS Alpha Team following his discharge from the Air Force. They'd both found their way out of the endless stretch of nothingness that was their home town, he supposed.

Chris leaned back and relaxed, draping one arm along the back of the bench seat. "So what've you been up to these days?"

"Oh the usual – playing chemist and staring at a computer screen. I got a promotion."

"Oh?" He could tell by the way Bill's eyebrows scrunched together and the slight upturn at the corners of his mouth that his friend was fairly excited about it.

"Yeah. I'm going to be heading up a team working on some new type of antiviral. I can't say much more about it – non-disclosure agreements and all that – but it's a big step up from the grunt work I've been doing."

Chris grinned again. "Congrats, man! That's awesome."

"Thanks." Bill began to crack his knuckles one at a time. "How about you? How'd everything pan out with that nurse – what was her name?"

"Melissa. Ship long sailed, unfortunately."

"Damn, that sucks. She sounded nice."

"Eh. Easy come easy go," he said dispassionately. "Just wasn't meant to be I guess."

"What about Jill, your partner? She's cute," Bill suggested slyly.

Chris laughed. "I am so not her type."

Their breakfast arrived and the two dug in. As always, they'd ordered the same thing – the farmer's breakfast, eggs fried, with bacon. It was something of a tradition. Chris went on to fill Bill in on the current goings-on at the RPD before they reverted to their usual reminiscing. After their fourth coffee refill, they asked for the check. Bill snatched it out from under Chris' hand as he tried to grab it.

"Hey – it was my turn to pay."

"I've got it, man."

"Alright, alright," Chris relented with some reluctance.

Bill tucked a decent amount more cash than usual into the receipt and set it aside. They both stood. "It was good to catch up again. Sorry I've been so busy lately."

"No worries." Something had changed about his friend's demeanor, Chris realized. There had been a slight air of finality in Bill's voice. "We'll just have to try to do this more often."

Bill sighed. "That's the catch to this promotion, Chris. It's in Maine."

Well, that certainly explained a few things.

Chris thought for a second. "How long until they want you there?"

"Tomorrow. Most of my stuff shipped yesterday. I found out the day before that."

They both stood there for a moment, not really sure what to say. Chris put his hands on his hips in contemplation before opening them wide, facing his friend. "C'mere, you bastard." The old friends embraced briefly, then took a step back from each other. "I'm proud of you, man."

"That means a lot. Thanks."

They went their separate ways at the door, having parked in different parts of the lot.

"You better watch out," Chris cautioned in a generic, mock New England accent. "Don't go following any clowns into storm drains."

Bill chuckled. "Don't worry, I won't. Take it easy Chris."

"You too, Bill."

Jill Valentine rushed out the front door of the apartment building towards her dirty, green hatchback. The warm evening air carried the earthy aroma of fresh-cut grass, but she didn't have time to take it in. She was already late, as always, for Alpha Team's potluck they tried to hold once a month. She almost dropped the container of potato salad she had just finished putting together while hurriedly attempting to unlock her car's stubborn door. Finally getting it open, Jill set the large Tupperware bowl carefully on the passenger seat, hoping against hope that it would remain there for her drive to the Burtons'. I knew I should have made this yesterday…

She started her car and headed off. It wasn't far to the Burtons' house in the suburbs, and she managed to hit green lights most of the way. The rest of the team sans Wesker, their captain, was already there when she arrived.

"Well, well," greeted Chris – her partner on Alpha – playfully, sipping from a can of Old Milwaukee. "Look who's late again."

"Hey, at least I bring actual food," Jill shot back at him with a smirk, heading to the kitchen with her potato salad.

"Hey! Beer is actual food." In the past, Chris had proven his cooking skills atrocious enough to get him permanently relegated to supplying beverages.

Kathy, Barry's wife, was the antithesis of her husband; soft spoken and mild compared to the boisterous giant, she spent much of her time as a stay-at-home mom or working on her photography skills. She set down the knife she was using to slice watermelon and gave Jill a warm hug. "It's good to see you. Go ahead and set what you brought on the counter. Barry should be in with the first batch of brats in the next few minutes."

"Thanks. It's good to see you too."

She set it down and grabbed a beer from the ice chest before heading back to the living room. Taking a seat on the couch and pushing a strand of her brown hair out of her face, she cracked the can open with a crisp snik. "I assume the Captain couldn't make it?"

Chris answered as she took a couple large gulps of the cold lager. "Yup. As usual. Said he had a bunch of pressing work matters to attend to, but to go ahead and enjoy ourselves without him and he'd try to catch us next time."

"The man is gonna work himself to death," Joe Frost chimed in. "I don't think he's even taken a vacation since I joined."

"He does seem wound pretty tight lately," observed Brad Vickers.

Jill shrugged. "He might just be one of those people who doesn't know how not to work. Think about it – have any of us ever heard him mention any hobbies or friends outside of the department?"

"Could just be he likes to keep his private life private – professionalism and all," Brad offered, "But yeah, I get what you mean."

A couple seconds later, Barry's deep voice boomed from outside the sliding glass back door. "Food's up! Get it while it's hot!"

There was no shortage of food, and everyone piled their plates high. Even Barry and Kathy's two young daughters, Moira and Polly, joined them. It was the heartiest meal Jill had eaten in a while. She was relieved that her potato salad, which she had been a little nervous about, ended up being a big hit.

Jill gnawed away at another cob of corn while watching her comrades relax. Chris and Barry lounged in their seats and regaled Kathy with stories from their time in the military together. Kathy laughed along at their exploits despite undoubtedly having heard most of their stories many times before. Whatever Barry had just said had left Chris practically wheezing as he tried to take another drink of his beer. Brad patiently helped seven-year-old Moira figure out an Etch A Sketch, holding it low enough that she could see what he was doing before handing it back to let her try. Joe galloped around on all fours, five-year-old Polly riding on his back and giggling as he neighed and pawed at the air. Jill couldn't help but smile.

There was still a part of her that felt as though she didn't belong. Maybe it was the fact that STARS had been, intentionally or otherwise, something of a boys' club until recently. Or maybe it was that she, like Wesker, never truly felt that she could entirely drop her professional persona around them and played strictly by the rules. She knew Joe thought she could be a bit of a hard ass. More likely it was just that she was the newest on Alpha and, though her teammates had done everything they could to make her feel welcome, they all had a certain level of shared experience from their years working together that she simply didn't. Maybe it would just take more time.

She brought her plate and fork to the kitchen when she was done, finding Barry cleaning dishes at the sink. Kathy was there, talking to him quietly.

"It's okay, honey," she reassured. "I'll take care of the dishes. You go entertain our guests."

Barry sounded apologetic. "You sure? It'll only take me a little bit, and you've had the kids all day."

"Honey…" she replied, hands on her hips, faking a stern expression.

"Okay, okay. Twist my arm." He chuckled and kissed her on the forehead before heading back out to the living room.

Jill set her dishes on the counter and turned to go.

"Hey Jill." It was Kathy.

"Hey. Thanks for letting us do this every month."

Kathy smiled at her. "It's no problem – you guys are always a lot of fun to have over." She scrubbed at a tough spot on one of the plates. "You're a little quiet tonight. Everything alright?"

Jill contemplated brushing over it with a generic answer, but decided otherwise. "I'm just… feeling a bit out of place." She went on to briefly explain what she'd been thinking about.

"I get it. But believe me; the others don't see you that way. Chris has said more than a few times how glad he is that you're his partner, and my husband still refers to you as the 'master of unlocking' after you taught him about lock picking. That set of picks you gave him might be one of his most prized possessions at this point."

"God, that cheesy nickname stuck around?"

They both laughed.

"I know it's easier said than done, but try not to worry so much about it. You're as much a part of the team as any of them."

"Thanks, Kathy."

"Don't mention it."

Once the girls had been sent to bed and the dishes taken care of, their poker game began. Everyone brought a roll of pennies to bet with, though usually it seemed Joe wound up with all of them at the end of the night.

"You better not be counting cards," Barry teasingly warned after incorrectly calling Joe's bluff and losing almost half his pennies.

"No tricks over here – just admit it old man, I'm better at this than you." A wry grin tugged at the corner of Joe's mouth.

"Old? I'll show you old! Old age and treachery beat youth and skill every time."

Jill stifled a laugh. "Better be careful Barry. The track record shows otherwise."

"Don't remind me," groaned Brad as he looked dejectedly at his own dwindling coin supply.

Jill won a couple hands, earning some lighthearted accusations of her own. It was only a matter of time before Joe brought up the subject they had been avoiding until the Burton children were no longer in the room.

"You hear they're looking into those animal attacks as potential homicides now?"

Chris looked up from his cards in surprise. "No. What happened?" It was news to the rest of them, too.

"I dunno, man. That's just what the rumor mill is churning out. Irons is trying to keep it on the down low for now, I guess."

"That's all you heard?" Barry asked suspiciously. Joe was good at what he did on the team, and a good friend, but had a bit of a known penchant for conspiracy theories.

"Not exactly. My friend at the hospital said someone ate those people."

"You mean something?"

"No, someone. Like cannibals or some shit."

"Easy there." Jill drew a card. "Your inner Mulder is starting to show."

Brad folded, irritably setting his cards down on the coffee table. "Seriously Joe? I highly doubt the reincarnation of Jeffrey Dahmer is running around our neck of the woods with a pack of bloodthirsty dogs."

Joe held his hands up defensively. "I'm just saying what I heard. Maybe there's a copycat."

Chris put down the last card from the deck. "Full house. Read 'em and weep."

Eventually Joe won, as was to be expected, and they finished cleaning up before everyone went their separate ways for the night. Jill thanked Kathy and Barry again for hosting and said goodnight to the guys before heading back towards home.

A metallic clatter woke Alan Brookings from his slumber. He lifted his head, blinking rapidly to try and make sense of the darkness around him. Something else clanged in the otherwise silent night, like someone had knocked over an empty pot or something of that nature. It came from outside, in the direction of the edge of the logging camp. Bright moonlight peeked in through the trailer's windows.

A burglar maybe, or a bear? Alan thought as he quietly pulled the sheets back and swung his legs over the side of the mattress, fumbling around for the pair of pants he had left crumpled beside his bed.

Maybe it's those dogs that have been attacking people. He dismissed the thought. No, it was probably just some animal who had smelled the food in their garbage and was looking for a midnight snack. It wouldn't be the first time. Still, he supposed, it would be best to check it out anyway. The big man pulled the pants up around his waist and slid his feet into his boots, snagging a flashlight and his shotgun from near the trailer's door. Just a quick look.

The thin, metal door swung open with a soft creak and Alan shut it behind him, careful not to make too much noise. The soft soil beneath his boots muffled his footsteps as he made his way toward the main building that contained the office and kitchen.

As the narrow beam of his flashlight swept across the off-white corrugated steel of the building, he could hear a faint scuffling noise coming from behind the meager structure. Alan began to round the corner carefully, his fingers tightening unintentionally on the shotgun's grip. Taking a deep breath he quickly stepped sideways, bringing the rest of the back of the main building into the cone of his light. There was nothing there. I could've swore I heard-

Suddenly something slammed into him from behind and he screamed, only managing to squeeze off a single, un-aimed shot.

The other loggers, jolted awake by the loud report, began to emerge from their trailers to find out what was going on. Confused and bleary eyed, they flicked on flashlights and began to search the camp. One of them, Benny, noticed that their foreman wasn't among those who had woken up. He decided to check Alan's trailer only to find him missing. It was one of the newer additions to their crew who finally found the trail of blood leading into the woods.

A loud beeping scratched incessantly at the edge of Rebecca's consciousness. She groaned and curled into a ball, willing it to go away, her sleepy mind not yet registering where the noise was coming from or why. The pager went off again and she reached for it, hitting the tiny button to backlight the screen. Her eyes squinted against the sudden, orange glow.

GET TO THE STATION ASAP.

Now very awake, Rebecca felt her pulse accelerate as she flew into motion. In a flash she was in her forest green uniform that she had left draped over a chair near the foot of the bed and she began to clumsily lace her black patrol boots in the dark. Swiping her keys from the hook near her apartment's door, she half ran-half jogged down the single flight of stairs to her waiting car.

When she got to the station, the rest of Bravo was already donning their black tactical vests and other equipment. She grabbed her own, snugging down the straps around her midsection as Enrico began to explain what little they knew.

"The foreman at a logging camp on the north end of Victory Lake, Alan Brookings, just went missing. The other loggers awoke to a single gunshot and the sound of a man screaming, but when they came out to investigate, there was no one to be seen. One of the loggers noticed he was missing. A little while later, they found his gun and a blood trail leading into the woods."

"Do they know what it was?" asked Edward Dewey in his gruff voice that to Rebecca made him seem perpetually irritable. The fact that it was two in the morning probably didn't help.

Enrico shook his head. "The loggers are pretty freaked out. They think it was an animal attack."

"I guess they get the newspaper out there, too," Forrest drawled, scratching at one of his heavily tattooed arms. He picked up his Mini 14 – a compact, semi-automatic rifle that the marksman seemed to particularly treasure – and checked to make sure the chamber was clear.

Rebecca's apprehension grew as they piled into the waiting SWAT van and started to race north. Forest, as seemed to be the usual, followed in his truck with Richard. Ken Sullivan, easily Bravo's most mild-mannered member and the man in charge of her training, sat next to her. He glanced her way and smiled warmly before saying, "Dang. I was kinda looking forward to sleeping tonight. Seems like we're always the ones on call when something goes wrong lately, huh?"

She ran a hand nervously through her short, reddish-brown bangs. "Yeah. Just another day on the job, right?" Her voice broke a little when she spoke, but Rebecca hoped he hadn't heard it over the noise of the engine.

Ken let out a short laugh, his brilliantly white teeth contrasting the dark interior of the vehicle. "That's the spirit. Just remember to keep your head on a swivel and everything's gonna be just fine."

Soon the nicely paved streets gave way to winding mountain roads, then gravel as they took a switchback a little too fast for comfort. Trees rushed by on either side, flying out of the bright beams of the van's headlights as fast as they appeared.

Bravo arrived at the logging camp in record time, the van's tires crunching to a halt as they pulled in next to one of the logging company's flatbeds. Edward killed the engine. Two Sheriff's cars were already on-site, their flashers painting the scene in otherworldly shades of blue and red as the deputies swept their spotlights back and forth in wide arcs along the western edge of the camp. A small group of terrified looking men milled about in front of a cluster of trailers. Some of them smoked while others just looked on, arms crossed tightly across their chests. Rebecca made the reasonable assumption that they were the loggers.

Enrico went ahead of the group to talk to one of the deputies. After a brief exchange, he returned to give them their orders.

"There's the trail," he began, gesturing at a dark swath of dirt that Rebecca soon realized was soaked in blood. "That's where we start. Spread out a bit, double file, but keep each other in sight. I don't want anyone getting lost out here."

They set off, spreading out as they went. It was slow going through the thick underbrush, but even so Rebecca had to work to keep up with Ken. The night air had cooled considerably from the day's muggy heat, but even so, she could see sweat begin to bead on Ken's dark skin in the reflected illumination of their flashlights. He looked side to side carefully, making sure not to miss any potentially important details.

Rebecca saw Enrico and Edward stop. Bravo Team came together like an accordion as both trailing pairs caught up to the front where Enrico stood, looking rather sour. His bristly moustache drooped at the corners where the edges of his mouth had turned downward in a stern frown.

"The trail seems to end here," Enrico explained. "Fan out."

The team split off, with Ken on one side of Rebecca and Richard on the other. Even though she could see her nearest teammates – or at least their lights – through the leaves and branches, Rebecca couldn't help but feel alone and extremely vulnerable. Her free hand rest uneasily on the butt of her sidearm as she stepped cautiously over a fallen tree limb. Her shoulders tightened. Gruesome images began to play themselves out in her mind, and shadows began to take on a life of their own as Rebecca's eyes began to play tricks on her in the dark.

Get ahold of yourself, she thought, admonishing herself for letting her imagination get the better of her. You wanted this position with the STARS, now stop acting like a scared little kid and focus. Show them you can do your job just as well as any of the rest of the team.

"Hey!" Ken yelled from her right. "I think I've got something over – yikes!"

Ken's sudden shout of alarm sent her running as fast as she could towards his location. Ferns and a few branches slapped at her as she moved. She found him, gun drawn, staring down at a blood-smeared patch of leaves. The blood continued out ahead of him for a few feet before terminating at a crumpled, headless figure at the base of a tree. Shredded strands of muscle and connective tissue protruded messily from the tattered stump where it appeared the head had been violently ripped from the body. The man's dingy shirt was stained brilliant crimson, and there was a tattered void where his guts should have been. A short length of intestine trailed out of the hole like a slimy, pink snake. Rebecca could feel the color drain from her face.

It didn't take the rest of Bravo long to catch up. There was obviously no need to check to see if the man was still alive, so they proceeded to secure the scene and make sure whatever had killed him wasn't still nearby. To Rebecca, it all went by in a blur as she tried to compartmentalize what she had seen. Once more deputies and a pair of RPD detectives showed up, Bravo made their way back to their van and returned to the station.

The ride back was smoother, but no one said a word the whole time. The adrenaline now fully worn off, Rebecca let herself settle into the hard, inward facing seat. A glance at her watch told her it was just before four in the morning, only adding credence to the fatigue that had begun to envelop her. But as tired as she was, Rebecca had a feeling that she wasn't going to be able to fall asleep any time soon. At least tomorrow was her day off.