-Chapter 9-





Shit! Chris cursed in silence, Zombies everywhere I, or Claire, go! Goddamn Umbrella Inc., ruining thousands of innocent lives every year because of their friggin' BOW experiments! What do they have planned this time?!

"Chris?" Claire said, her voice breaking through his personal confinement of silence, "What's going on?"

"Damn," he said aloud, "Zombies again."

"I figured that..."

A scream coming from the kitchen filled their ears.

Come to think of it. Claire thought to herself, this diner does look strangely like the one in Raccoon City where I met Leon for the first time in such an unfavorable way. If only Leon were here....

Chris ran towards the kitchen, stopped at the doors and peers into the small windows. Inside, the brunette waitress was being stalked by a few zombies. He un-holstered his handgun from inside of his vest, turning his head towards Claire, "Claire!" he yelled, "Arm yourself!"

"Okay." she answered, taking her handgun from her pocket.


Chris disappeared into the kitchen, Claire faced the street, facing the zombies which were now traveling at a faster than normal speed; she steadily aimed, anticipating a frontal attack. Man... She thought to herself now I really do wish Leon was here.

Chris was too late to save the waitress, seeing that the zombies had already taken the attractive young woman down. He heard a slight squishing sound to his right side and instinctively outstretched his right arm and pulled the trigger, shooting the oncoming zombie between the eyes, killing it.

A few more zombies came into view, as if to replace the fallen zombie. Shit... he thought to himself, why can't Umbrella just stop with their damn BOW crap?! Innocent lives are being decimated and their dreams shattered along with them! "Damn..." he said aloud.

In the eating room area of the diner, several zombies pressed themselves against the glass, pounding desperately. Claire sighed in relief; "At least the glass is thick." she said to herself but did not put down the gun, not trusting the stability of the glass. She started to wonder if there was a back door somewhere in the building.

¤ ¤ ¤

The dark rage passed, and Mike Arevir regained his senses, in any state they were currently in, in the debris covered bedroom of his home, where he had smashed almost anything he could get his hands on. A massive, agonizing pain smashed throughout his head, and a smaller pain pounded through his muscles. His joints felt swollen and stiff. His eyes were sandy, watery, and hot. His teeth ached, and his mouth still tasted of ashes.

He could not think clearly; feeling confused, disoriented, moving at a considerably sluggish rate and in a somewhat clumsy and awkward manner. His condition was eerie, unpleasant, even terrifying; he felt that he was no longer in charge of his own path, and that he was trapped within his own body, bound to his now-imperfect, half-dead flesh.

He slowly staggered to the bathroom, slowly showered and brushed his teeth afterwards; not even seeing any real point to brushing his teeth, but he still did it anyway in an attempt at taking the vile taste of ashes from out of his mouth. He staggered back to his bedroom and opened his closet door, changing into black pants, a deep red long sleeve shirt, a black sweater, and a pair of brown boots. In his own personal zone of grayness, the morning routine took more time than it had done before. He had trouble adjusting the shower to the right temperature; he kept dropping the automatic toothbrush into the sink several times; he cursed his stiff fingers as he kept screwing up when dressing himself; and he succeeded in lacing the boots with only extreme effort.

Food. The basic need for any life form on the planet was still something that his body needed to continue living, so to say. For the first time since his awakening at the morgue, he was hungry.

He limped to the kitchen unsteadily, and to the refrigerator.

He got a package of lunch meat from the fridge portion and the gallon of milk as well; sitting at the table soon after, shoulders hunched, head held low, he tore open the package of lunch meat and started to eat it. The very act of eating made him feel more alive than anything he had done since he awoke in the morgue. Biting, chewing, tasting, swallowing.... by these simple actions, he was brought back (in his damaged mind) among the living since he had been struck by the SUV not too long ago. For a while, his spirits began to rise.

He slowly became aware that the taste of the lunch meat was not as enjoyable as does the milk that he had been able to fully enjoy the food when he was fully alive and able to appreciate it. He stared at his cool, light grey, clammy hands, which held the meat in one hand and the gallon in the other; realizing that the slab of lunch meat looked more alive than his own flesh.

An emotion that he thought he had lost since his death rushed through him; he was dismayed by the feeling, shuddered and began to weep. He dropped the meat and set the gallon on the table, sweeping it off to the floor soon after and collapsed forward, folding his arms on the table and resting his head in his arms. Sobs of grief escaped him, immersing himself in a deep pool of anguish and pity.

His mood darkened

His dulled senses grew even duller.

He realized that he was sinking into yet another period of suspended animation. He slipped off of the chair to the floor and curled into a fetal position beside the table.