Chapter One: Welcome to Raccoon City

"This is Chris Redfield. I can't get to the phone right now. Leave me a name and number and I'll get back to you. Maybe."

Claire didn't think an answering machine could be so frustrating. Or make her feel so anxious. The last time she had called her brother was at a payphone outside a Burger King just outside of Chicago. She prayed that he answered - that the last five or six phone calls had been missed for some logical reason. Maybe he's just having issues with his phone, Claire rationalized. Or maybe he was seeing someone. Though both reasons seemed unlikely, and the more reasons Claire thought of, the more outlandish they seemed to become.

Since their parents died, he had been more than a brother to her. A parent, a guardian, a friend. He was always, without exception, there for her. The real thing that bothered her was the last time she saw him.

"Promise me that you will stay around other people, especially at night," he had told her. "People you trust. Watch out for anything shady—weird people, weird vehicles. And most of all, you have got to promise me that you will stay away from Raccoon City."

Chris Redfield was always a man who had a situation under control, but that day she saw fear in his eyes. Like a virus, that fear filled her up as well. He would probably be pissed, but she would be fine with that so long as he was alright.

If he's even there.

Claire revved the throttle and her bike leaped forward an extra ten miles per hour. Trees swept by in a blur on either side of her. Dusk colored the cloudy skies in deep shades of violet and fushia. The scent of rain seeped through the visor of Claire's helmet. No more had she noticed it than the road before her glistening wetly. That's just what I need, she thought. More rain.

Night soon followed and only the evenly dispersed street lamps broke the darkness. A chill ran down Claire's back. The dark reminded her of the lack of cars. Hell, she hadn't seen a single one since getting off the interstate about an hour ago. The route she chose was what her father would have called "off the beaten path," which was often code for "let's take this back-way because I don't want to deal with traffic." The funny thing was, though, it was usually faster than taking Highway 44. Speed was the best option— to get to Raccoon, to get to Chris, and hopefully to free her of this anxiety.

The needle for the gas gauge wavered uncomfortably near 'E'. I knew I should have gassed up in St. Louis. Luckily, there was an old Mizoil gas station just outside the city. If it was still there, that is. It had been six years since she had been in Raccoon last and those years felt like another lifetime ago. As far as Claire was concerned, it was.

Some of her anxiety faded when the gas station appeared on the right. 'Mizoil' blazed in white neon lettering over the gas pumps and, though it was dark inside the station, the open sign glowed red in the window. Must have blown a fuse, Claire thought. A rumble of distant thunder seemed to confirm the thought. She pulled up to the side of one of the gas pumps, taking notice of a patrol car park directly in front. Its driver's door was open with the high beams directed at the station's entrance.

Claire pulled into the gas station's parking lot next to the phone booth. She shut the motor off and the quiet of the night enveloped her. So quiet it made the hairs on the nape of her neck stand up. Power's probably out, Claire thought. After all, there was no other sign of struggle or sounds that came outside. Unless they were all held hostage…that something was in there waiting for her…

"They're coming to get you, Claire."

"Shut up, Chris," Claire muttered, though she couldn't help but grin. She climbed off her bike and pulled the helmet off. Locks of dark, red hair pulled back into a loose ponytail fell down behind her shoulders. Claire shook it out, letting the summer air dry her sweaty face. She dismounted, placed her helmet on the seat, and put a hand in her pocket. At least a couple of dollars worth of quarters in there. Enough for, at least, two or three more calls.

Come on, Chris, she thought as she pulled the phone booth's door open. Thankfully, the compartment looked relatively clean—clean of the graffiti or garbage that coated the one she used in St. Louis. Claire grabbed the receiver, put two quarters into the change slot, and waited. Her heart thudded painfully with each unanswered ring. Come on, Chris, she thought again, repeating it in her head like a mantra.

"This is Chris Redfield," her brother, or rather his voicemail, answered. "I can't get to the phone right now. Leave me a name and number and I'll get back to you. Maybe."

Beep.

Claire sighed.

"Hey Chris," Claire said, her voice echoing in the tight space. "It's me. I'm almost to Raccoon. Probably only twenty minutes away. I used Old County Road…you know the one Dad used all the tight. Remember when he'd used to say…never mind…listen I'll be there soon. Just…please home."

She held the receiver to the side of her face a moment longer, struggling for more to say. How much more was there after nine missed phone calls?

"Damn it," she muttered and hung up. Maybe it was finally time to confront the possibility of the worst-case scenario. Maybe he was gone-disappeared, vanished.

"Don't you go disappearing on me too!" She heard Denise's voice in the back of her head.

"Shit!"

Claire inserted two more quarters and punched in her number.

"Claire?" Denise asked.

"Hey."

"Gurl! Where have you been?"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Claire replied, just barely able to hide the smile creeping into her voice. "I got caught up riding."

"Caught up riding, she says," Denise tutted playfully. "Anyway, did you make it? You find Sir Sexypants yet."

"I'm almost to Raccoon and no, I haven't found Chris yet."

"I bet you're worrying over nothing. He's probably getting his groove on in the bars down there if you know what I mean. If I lived there, I'd be all over—"

"Okay, stop," Claire replied, grinning. "I do not want to think about my brother like that. Why don't you go take a cold shower and I'll call you when I get to his place."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

"Okay! Just be careful out there, Claire-bear."

"I will. Talk to you later."

Despite the current situation, Claire hung up the phone still smiling. She should have waited for Denise to join her–she said that she had a final that coming Monday, and couldn't do anything until after that. Claire couldn't wait. She wouldn't be able to live with that overwhelming sense that something was very wrong. It would have driven her insane.

Still, the company would have been nice. Especially now.

Claire turned back to the gas station. The officer hadn't returned to his vehicle. Her stomach twisted. Maybe there was something wrong. She placed her hand back on the phone's receiver to call the RPD, only to remember that the dozen times she had tried that, she received a busy signal.

And there could be someone in there–the officer, the staff, a client. I doubt their phones don't work inside.

But there was a payphone just outside. If someone was really in trouble…

Claire sighed, tapping her finger on the phone. Just a quick look, she told herself. If everything was fine, she would hop on her bike and ride away.

And if not?

"Cross that bridge when I get to it," Claire muttered to herself. So, she exited the phone booth, feeling the silence of the night. A low mist swirled around her ankles and a chill sneaked in through her leather jacket.

Claire started for the darkened building, unable to pull away from the mystery that lay within.

This day can't get any worse.

It was a thought that kept repeating in Leon Kennedy's head all day. What should have been a day of celebration, the beginning of his professional journey, had turned out to be one of disappointment and heartbreak. Not only had his girlfriend of the past year and a half broken up with him last night, not only had he overslept with a hangover, not only was he late for his first day as a new officer at the Raccoon Police Department but now his exit was blocked by two military vehicles and several soldiers armed with assault rifles. No detour signs and no guy in a fluorescent vest directing him where to go. The route was completely cut off.

Leon pulled up anyway and rolled down the window.

"The exit's closed," the soldier said plainly.

"I see," Leon replied, trying not to let his pounding head tent the professionalism in his voice. "I'm an officer with the RPD. What's going on?"

"Move along," the soldier simply replied. His comrades seemed to notice Leon's intrusion, for they edged toward his Jeep with both hands on their weapons. Leon just nodded, knowing that if he pressed on things would not go well for him. He pulled back onto the highway, but the presence of the military lingered on his mind. If they had cut off a direct exit to Raccoon, something had happened. Something big and something bad.

Here I am, out here twiddling my thumbs, he thought. He was now a police officer, a guardian of the people and of peace. He should be with his new colleagues, helping citizens get away safely from the chemical leak or the terrorist attack or whatever the Hell was going on there. All because I got dumped and chose to drown my sorrows in booze. A stupid mistake, to be sure—especially now—but the bitter sting of that breakup still cut through his chest. To think, one of the reasons he took this job was to get a good paying job, get a house in Raccoon City, start a family—

Leon cut the line of thinking off before it could take root. The last thing he needed on his first night on the job was to be hung over and pining.

Luckily, he turned off on the next exit and stopped at the nearest gas station. He asked the attendant if there was another way into the city. The attendant, a middle-aged man with bags under his eyes and thinning hair, had the answer he needed.

"Just go down County Line Road," he said in a raspy voice that suggested years of smoking. "It's a bit out of the way, but no one really uses it. Other than maybe truckers and kids looking for a good time."

So, Leon gassed up and headed back to the road. Forty-five minutes later, he was on the dark road to Raccoon.

"Hello?'

Claire's voice hung in the air, amplified by the silence. The darkened windows should have been her first guess that something was wrong, but like all people, she rationalized it into normalcy. It's been raining, Claire told herself. There's probably a power line down or something. Those thoughts were short-lived when she stepped inside.

There was a foul stench —a smell not dissimilar to rotten meat. Metal shelves were tipped to their side, their contents spilled onto the linoleum floor. The checkout counter lay to her right in disarray. A display of lighters was overturned and scattered, and the candy racks on the counter's front littered the entryway.

Her first thought was a robbery. After all, hadn't she spotted a cop car parked out front? Claire let the glass door shut behind her. The bell attached to the door rang and made the hairs on her arms stand on end.

"Hello?" she called again. Still, no answer. She took a tentative step inward. Then a horrible thought came to mind—what if the robber was still there and had hostages? Claire imagined Chris in this situation; his legs bent, a gentle grip on his holstered weapon, his eyes surveying the area. Unconsciously, Claire copied this image of her brother as she walked forward, peering around the aisles to ensure no one hid behind them. Now if only I had a gun, she thought bitterly.

The only light in the station came through the windows from the street lamps but all they did was cast more shadows. Perfect for someone to hide. Knock it off, Claire told herself, even though her heart thudded painfully in her chest.

Her foot almost skidded under her. Claire quickly regained her balance to find the floor coated in a thick, dark liquid. She bent over for a better look. The substance was black in the darkness. She moved her foot through it and the smear stained the tile. Looks like…Blood. Her chest seized at the thought. What if there was someone still here? Hurt? Unable to call out? Or what if the attacker was still here? Claire tightened her jaw and took a step forward.

She rounded the last row of shelves. Darkened freezers containing a variety of beverages lined the wall to her right. Several feet away, a door stood open and a man sat beside it. By the blue button-up the man wore, he looked to be a cop–maybe even the driver of the patrol outside. He breathed heavily, not bothering to notice Claire as she drew near, and held a bloody hand to his neck.

"Oh my god," Claire muttered, picking up her pace. "Are you alright?"

The cop said nothing but breathed heavily. He didn't even look up at her.

"I'm going to get help," Claire said. She turned to dash back to the payphone outside when the man answered her in a low, strained voice.

"Another…inside…"

He pointed toward the open doorway. Then his hand dropped, landing on a flashlight at his side. The cop grabbed it lethargically and held it up to Claire.

She hesitated for a moment before finally taking it. As soon as the item's weight transferred from his hand to hers, his arm fell back again.

Claire clicked it on. A ring of illumination showed a narrow corridor that turned to the right behind the freezers. The corridor appeared to stretch on for infinity, but when Claire brought up the flashlight, its beam revealed a door a few feet away. It was cracked open and she could have sworn she heard shuffling behind it.

"Hello?" she asked, taking a step forward around a stack of soft drink cases.

A man cried out from the other side. Claire's eyes widened and every bit of trepidation fled, replaced with a determined, narrow stream of thought. Someone was in trouble.

"Is anyone back there?" she asked and took several strides forward. Her footsteps echoed loudly in the tight space.

"Stop resist–" came the strained reply.

Claire reached the door and placed a hand against the metal door, and with a bit more effort than she initially thought required, pressed it open.

Shelves filled with products lined the room. A small light came from the right-most corner, obscured by another shelf bisecting half of the room. Claire subconsciously shifted in the direction of the light but stopped when hers landed on the source of struggling.

Two men wrestled with each other. One of them, wearing a tan shirt and pants, shifted his footing and shoved his opponent against the wall. Claire caught a glimpse of the shield-shaped badge on his left sleeve that identified him as an officer of the Raccoon Police Department. He held a handgun in his left hand–the standard-issue Beretta 9 millimeter. The other man stood just outside the range of Claire's flashlight, so he was nothing more than a hazy shape in the darkness.

"I said hold still!" the officer said through clenched teeth. The light beam passed over the back of the officer's head. He turned, his face screwed up into a tight grimace as he held his aggressor back with two arms. For a moment, Claire imagined it to be Chris who would face her. The fantasy was quickly dispensed. Though he couldn't be much older than Chris, the officer's nose was wider and his hairline crept farther back than her brother's.

"Excuse me, is everything okay?" Claire asked. The officer held up a hand.

"Stay back, ma'am. I got this–" The restrained man lunged forward. The officer brought his other arm back to keep the other in place but it was too late. Overcome by the weight of his assailant, he fell face-down. The Beretta flew from his, slid across the concrete floor, and came to rest at Claire's feet. The man fell forward with the officer, shoving his face in the nook of the officer's neck. Blood sprayed across the tile floor and the officer screamed.

"Get off him–" Claire shouted.

The man raised his head, pulling at the officer's flesh. The officer's screams grew higher until–with a rip, his larynx tore free in a bloody chunk of muscle dangled from the man's mouth. Milky white eyes lifted to find Claire.

A scream rose up in her throat but she held it back.

The man's left-side cheek had been torn off, exposing rotted teeth beneath a shimmer of crimson muscle. The creature's jaw slacked and the chuck of throat fell to the ground with a sickening thump. He rose, his posture unsteady.

All she could hear was that line from that dumb movie she and Chris used to watch as kids–They're coming to get you, Barbera. That had been the movies. This is real life and while her mind did backflips trying to justify what just happened, her body did the only rational thing. She scooped up the officer's gun.

The zombie took a lumbering step toward her, nearly tripping over the cop.

"Stay back!"

It took another lumbering step toward her. The stench wafting from it made Claire want to gag–a mix of blood and rot. The scent guided her aim, positioning the weapon muzzle between the thing's eyes, and fired.

Claire was not a stranger to firearms. Since Chris had joined the military, every time he would come home they went to the shooting range, unloading whatever weapons he brought with him. "I want you to be safe when I'm not around," he'd said once.

Regardless, the sound of the blast still shook her to the core.

The bullet hit its mark right above the bridge of the man's nose. His head snapped backward and he staggered in step. She waited for the corpse to finally fall. After all, wasn't that the rule in those old zombie movies? One shot to the brain and they went down. Yet, after what felt like an eternity, he steadied himself. When the creature brought its head back up, a ragged hole showed where the bullet had struck. Thick, black blood seeped from it, traveling down the side of its nose, over its mouth and chin, where the droplet splashed onto the floor.

And it was still coming.

Leon's seatbelt pressed painfully against his bladder and he kicked himself for not using the bathroom at the last gas station. Barely any street lights lit the road, so the only guiding light came from his headlights. It had only just stopped raining, leaving clouds of mist rolling across the blacktop.

He could pull over and pee off the side of the road, but the darkness kept him behind the wheel. Leon had heard about the murders that had happened in Raccoon City over the past few months–those vicious, cannibalistic attacks. In fact, it was probably part of the reason he had been so attracted to the position in the first place.

Dana, on the other hand, hadn't been so enthused.

He clamped his eyes shut, trying to shut that neural highway that transformed heartache into self-pitying thought.

I'm already late. Can't be thinking about that right now.

Granted, if he didn't hurry, his breakup might have been for nothing–

Something shiny and red on four legs stood in the middle of the road.

Leon gasped, pulling the wheel to the right. His belt tightened, threatening to squeeze all the urine out of his bladder. The treeline swung in the windshield. He twisted the wheel back to the right. Tires squealed against the wet pavement and his vehicle twisted too far. Leon whirled the wheel back when–

He slammed into his steering wheel. Pain radiated from his chest. His stomach rose into his chest, and Leon swallowed down the urge to vomit all over his dashboard. Then, there was no movement. Thank God, Leon thought. His limbs still trembled. He let his head rest on the wheel's cool leather, breathing in the cold air. There had been an abrupt finality to the careening vehicle's conclusion. The thought of looking up, of seeing what he had hit, did nothing to quell his rising sickness.

You can't stay here all night, Leon told himself. You have to look up eventually.

Leon swallowed once again before raising his throbbing head from the staring wheel. The front of his Jeep was a twisted mess around the trunk of a tree. Steam drifted up from beneath the hood, accompanied by the tick tick of cooling metal.

"Typical," he muttered. The pounding in his chest returned with a vengeance. Leon rested his head on the steering wheel and closed his eyes, letting the cool leather soothe his skull. Find a phone booth, call the R.P.D., tell them you're on your way. The major highway had been blocked off, so hopefully, that excuse held some credibility. Granted, he heard that Chief Brian Irons was a real dickhead from all of his instructors.

Hope that damn animal is alright.

Leon glanced over his shoulder. There was nothing there; not unless it was hiding in a blind spot. Some kind of dog, Leon thought, though it didn't sound right in his head. Whatever it was had looked too…wet…like it had been skinned.

"That's it," he muttered, letting out an uneasy chuckle. "I'm ever drinking again."

Leon leaned over and popped open his glove box. Inside lay his vehicles registration and proof of insurance, a heavy metal flashlight for emergencies, and a Beretta in its holster (sure he wouldn't get his official weapon registered to him until he got to the police station, but he bought one anyway to get a feel for it). He grabbed the light when his eyes fell on the weapon. Looking back at that moment, Leon wasn't sure what forced him to grab the handgun. Perhaps, it had been some form of prescience or maybe it was just the eerie silence surrounding him, but he grabbed the weapon and attached it to his side.

Leon stepped out of the Jeep and pulled his coat tighter around him, though it didn't stop his shivering. A light in the distance caught his eye a couple of yards in the distance. The sign read in bright, white letters, 'Mizoil.'

"Lucky," he muttered. His voice felt sharp in the night. "Lucky, lucky, lucky me."

He clicked on his flashlight. A brilliant beam illuminated the road in front of him. Leon swung it around to the place the animal had stood. No animal.

"Great, now my eyes are playing tricks on me," he said, rubbing his eyes. He opened them but noticed a new detail hidden beneath the mist–a series of dime-shaped, crimson blotches.

It took only a couple of minutes for Leon to make the trip from his Jeep to the gas station, and the whole time the sense that something was off grew stronger. For one, there were no lights on in the Mizoil. Maybe the storm took out the power, he thought. If that was the case, then why was the sign lit up? The second thing was the police car parked in front of the entrance, its high beams focused on the station's entrance. The driver's side door was still open, upon which 'R.P.D.' was stenciled in bold blue letters. He glanced to his right, where a motorcycle rested on its stand beside a phone booth. Unease tightened its grip around his throat. Street lights and sign lights were on, but the gas station interior was dark; the abandoned police vehicle; the bike set so casually, as if its owner intended to be right back. Everything looked…wrong.

Leon drew his gun. The first thing that came to mind was a robbery. It would explain the abandoned cop car and the darkened station.

He took a step toward the door when–

The sound of feet dragging against concrete broke through the silence.

Leon whipped around to the right, his gun three-fourths of the way raised. A figure slumped against the edge of the building and stumbled into view. They stood just outside the streetlight, keeping their features in the dark.

"Hey," Leon said, taking a tentative step forward. The shadow raised its head and took a staggering step toward him. A low, agonized moan drifted through the air. Leon went cold. Someone was hurt. "It's going to be okay. Just stay there, we're going to get you some help."

The figure didn't stop. Their gait quickened and they raised their arms. Another moan issued from its direction. Leon took another step forward, but he couldn't lower his gun. Some animal instinct told him that if he did, then he would be dead. So, he kept it half up.

"Please, you need to stop–"

The figure emerged into the light, revealing a gray complexion. The man–or at least, what Leon thought had been a man–was completely bald and wore jeans and a ripped button-down. His cloudy eyes showed nothing behind them. There was no pain, no anger, no plea for help. Just a yearning. A hunger.

Leon staggered back. There was a moan to his left. Another figure, momentarily clouded in darkness before it stepped into the light, came forward. This one was a woman in her early twenties wearing a tattered pink tank top and shorts. One of her eyes dangled out of its socket. Two more silhouettes ambled across the road.

Fear gripped him so fiercely that it took him a moment to regain his composure. It was like he was five again and the monsters had come out of the dark.

"Stay back!" he told them, but his voice came out weak. He fully raised the beretta and trained it on each of them. None of the figures stopped. The door banged open behind him. Leon rounded with his finger tight on the trigger.

A young woman raised her arms on the gas station's threshold.

"Wait!" she said. "Don't shoot."

Another figure approached her from behind, his body swaying back and forth with each step. A stray piece of light caught the figure, revealing the pale skin of the other–zombies.

"Get down!"

The woman dropped and Leon fired his weapon. A flash emitted from the handgun and the figure's head snapped back. It hung in the air for a moment before falling back into the darkness of the Mizoil station.

She looked up, dark red hair swirled around his heart-shaped face. Leon reached down.

"Come with me."

She grabbed it. The crowd seemed to double since Leon had turned his back, with more emerging from the forest on the other side of the road. His eyes instantly fell on the petrol car. Leon gestured toward the vehicle and the young woman darted to the passenger door. He jumped into the driver's seat and slammed the door behind him. No more had he done that than a shadow fell over him. He grabbed the keys in the ignition and twisted.

The car roared to life.

Leon reversed. One of the creatures lunged toward the trunk and slid off as the vehicle lurched forward. As Leon turned onto the road, a large reflective sign caught his eye from the right–

Welcome to Raccoon City

Home of Umbrella

The sign flashed past and Leon chortled darkly.

What one Hell of a welcome.