"Maybe those voices aren't army people at all, maybe those voices are Bad People. Crazy, like
that one man..." ~ ~ ~ S.D. Perry, City of the Dead.

After reading City of the Dead, I started wondering what had happened to that guy Sherry saw
through the air shaft, so I guess that's why I wrote this. It's my first attempt at any kind
of fanfic, so if u liked it, tell me. If you hated it, tell me that too, so I won't make the
mistake of attempting it again ;) Any kind of advice welcome too, if u have any :)

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He rocked on the chair, eyes unmoving from the floor. It just didn't make any sense. All the
blood, all the killing. And why? For what reason? The tall man's eyes now darted restlessly
around the grey room, as if searching for some answer to his unspoken question. His eyes froze
again, after a while, this time settling on the broken light fitting. He laughed.

He was sat in a cold, dark locker room. The rows of grey lockers illuminated by the orange glow
of a street lamp just outside the room's only window. It was night time. A faint and distant
sound of the nightmare could still be caught every now and then, as sound travelled easily
through the heavy blanket of silence that had settled over Raccoon. But here, in this man's
bubble, there was peace.

The man stood and walked over to the doorway to check the barricade was strong and that the
nails still held the blood stained wood solidly in place. Once satisfied with it's stability,
he moved back to his chair in the corner of the room. He perched on the edge of the seat,
like a small child would, and picked up the long hunting knife from the floor next to him.
He was ready to protect himself, from whatever might smash through the boards of wood covering
the door.

His mind wrestled with the painful, torturing memories of the last three or more days he
had spent inside the police station. Like so many others, he thought it would be the safest
place to hide from the creatures. Instead of safety though, he had found a dwindling number
of others like himself, others that had survived the first night. And then, one by one, he
watched them be killed by the relentless monsters. Why? Why had they murdered everyone but him?
Everybody that he had loved?

Then he remembered his girlfriend, lying naked on their bedroom floor. She was so beautiful,
with her golden hair, her full, red lips. They still quivered even after she was dead. He
remembered her eyes, as cold and as lifeless as little blue marbles, fixed on the ceiling as
the infected humans tore away at her beautiful skin, ripped her flesh from her bones and
exposed her pink, rubbery insides to the silent air that whispered through the deserted
streets of Raccoon City.

That same air crept into his sanctuary now. Silently slipping in through the ventilation
system from the streets outside, it spiralled upwards into his nostrils. The pure, fresh,
mountain air, now tainted by the stench of the dead and the tangy, coppery smell of blood.

It had become so cold all of a sudden. With numb fingers, he gently stroked the hard, sharp
edge of the blade between his fingers. It reassured him, comforted him. He giggled. Turning
the blade towards himself he began to mutter softly, his breath visible in the freezing cold
of the room. The point of the knife rested on his belly, the cold steel sending shivers up
and down his spine as it made contact with his skin.

Staring straight ahead, a smile upon his lips, he took a sharp breath of air and plunged the
metal deep into his stomach. A bloom of red blossomed outwards across his white shirt and a
stream of thick crimson trickled down from the seat of his chair onto the floor. His eyes were
clamped shut with the immense pain, his lips tight and narrow as he fell to the floor. A bright
white light filled his mind, and he was gone.




A small girl, watching from inside the ventilation shaft, turned and crawled away.