Bianca: I'm glad to hear you're enjoying the story so far. I'm starting at a pretty general base, but it'll go into a lot more detail soon enough. Try and remember what happened in the other story because its gonna fit with this one like a jigsaw puzzle.

Shadow Megaman: Yeah, this story isn't just another part of the previous one – it will have the same significance, only on Cranky's character and as mentioned above, will interlock pretty well with the first story.

ColdandShock3: I'm not angry at all with how you presented Kenny in your story. Having the same character being looked at from a different light is very interesting. And the fact that the character in question belongs to me, it makes it even more so. I did the same for Lisa Hartley and Jack Carpenter, from HHoD's story.

Cindy first noticed something was wrong when the door opened. She couldn't understand why a chill ran up her spine at that exact moment. The chime was no different that it was when other customers had entered the bar that way, but yet it was there – and very strong. Something at the back of her mind told her to turn around and take a good look at the customer that just entered. She did so.

Apparently, Will had also gotten the same impression that she did for he was already halfway to the door from the bar. "Will …" Cindy called out, but bit her lip, unsure of why she wanted him to stay away from the strange denim-clad man standing in the doorway. He had long brown hair reaching down to his chin, long enough that it obscured his face. He wore a denim jacket with matching jeans, both stained with a variety of colors that it was hard to tell where they came from. And judging from the smell that emanated from the man, Cindy didn't want to find out either.

"What a strange customer …" Will said as he approached the man.

"Will, get away from him." That was what Cindy would've said if she had found the courage to talk. But she could only stay rooted to where she stood. But it seemed that Will had already caught on. He reared back in horror to get some distance between him and the customer, but the man lunged forward and seized the younger bartender by the shoulders. He drove his face into Will's shoulder, producing a skin tearing, bone crunching noise as will screamed in pain.

"No!" Cindy cried running to his aid. By this time, the store's other patrons had already stood up from their seats, their attention focused at the door where Will now stood with his hand pressed against his shoulder. With his free arm, he shoved the man back outside the bar and slammed the door shut, locking it immediately. After the click of the lock was heard, he sank to the ground in a heap of pain, instead of heading back deeper into the bar.

That was when everyone noticed the screams coming from outside. The rude, blonde haired woman that Cindy helped earlier was up on her feet, pressing her face against the window, trying to get a good looking through the growing darkness. But the waitress wasn't paying attention to her. She was focused on her coworker, Will, leaning against the door with his hand pressed to his shoulder, his face a twisted mask of pain.

"I'm going to put a bandage on that," she said, tearing a strip from the bottom of her gray skirt.

"There's someone outside!" the rude woman yelled, pointing through the window. "He looks like he needs help. We've gotta open the door and let him in!"

"And risk letting those creatures in?" the gruff man, Mr. Cavanaugh, continued. "I don't think so."

The woman turned around and gave him a look of bewilderment. "Are you suggesting we let people die out there?!"

"If helping them poses a threat to our own safety, then yes."

"Of all the people to be stuck with …"

"Hey, stop it!" Cindy yelled at the two patrons – the first time she'd ever raised her voice at her customers. "This isn't the time to be arguing with each other. Something weird is happening out there and …"

"Yeah, I'll tell you what's happening …" the woman said. "Those cannibal murders I've been reporting about are occurring closer and closer to the center of the city!"

"You wrote those articles in the newspaper?" Cindy asked, pointing a shaky finger. "You're … Alyssa Ashcroft?"

"The one and only," Alyssa replied, a smug smile crossing her face.

"Except that I heard she stole the scoop from a fellow named Ben Bertolucci …" one of the other patrons said, shattering Alyssa's aura of confidence. This one was a large, rotund man of African descent and a deep voice. His bald head shone even under the dim lighting of the bar. The only hair on his face was present in a thin goatee around his upper lip and chin.

"Mr. Wilkins," Cindy said, her face lighting up.

"Please," he replied, putting his hand up, "Mark will do just fine."

"Okay, Mark, you have a gun, right?"

"Well … yeah," he said, "but why do you think we need a gun?"

"Are you crazy?" Alyssa interrupted. "Have you seen exactly what's going on outside? How else are we supposed to protect ourselves? You're our only hope!"

"Well … I …" Mark was about to deny the necessity for a firearm. But as Alyssa motioned outside, he realized just how much trouble they were in. Strange men – at least that's what they looked like – were shuffling along the streets of the city, moaning with arms outstretched wherever they walked. Handfuls of civilians were being cornered by the things, knocked down and bitten, screaming all the way. And the customer that had previously entered the bar was just one of these strange men.

"They're goddamn zombies straight out of a horror movie!" Alyssa cried, her finger still pointing to the window.

"Yeah, but is one gun going to be enough to protect all of us?" Alyssa asked, glancing quickly around the room. She estimated between eight to ten other people besides herself. But her mind had more important things to worry about that the people present in the room with her – like how to get the hell out of the building without ending up like the people on the street.

"I can back Mr. Wilkins up," a proud, youthful voice boomed. A young police officer with long brown hair and really bad razor stubble stepped into place beside Mark, brandishing a Colt .45 handgun. "This baby can handle anything."

"Thanks for the offer son," Mark said, extending his hand to the officer, who returned the gesture. "What's your name?"

"Kevin Ryman," was the reply. "I'm surprised you don't know who I am by now."

"He's a regular at the bar, Mark," Cindy said patting Kevin's shoulder. "He's a very good sharpshooter." She then turned her attention to Kevin. "And I hope you can help us out in this tight situation."

"Don't worry about me," he said, training his weapon at the front door. "You just use those potent herbs of yours to heal any injuries we may sustain. Mark and I will take care of anything that tries to lay a finger on us."

"Where can we escape to?" Alyssa cried out desperately.

"That door, over there!" Cindy replied, pointing urgently to the locked door at the back of the bar, just beside the counter. "But … I've forgotten where I left the key!"

"Don't worry about it," Alyssa said, "I'll pick the lock."

"Are you sure you know how to …"

"Just shut up and heal!"

XXXXX

Cranky's first instinct was to hold his ears close with his palms and crouch down to the earth, sitting there in complete silence, hoping that the darkness and these strange people would disappear soon. But the loud gunshots that rang through the air was a constant reminder that this nightmare was all to real. Within the first few hours of entering Raccoon City, he had already witnessed a handful of deaths with these strange men walking all around, trying to get at him – and for what, he didn't know.

Just a few feet away, using the police patrol car as a shield, Officer Raymond was firing his handgun at the oncoming crowd of the strange, smelly men. He didn't want to use the word, but the more Cranky thought about it, the more they resembled the undead. They behaved on one instinct only – hunger. They traveled in packs, slow as hell, and incredibly dumb. But they displayed vicious strength and ferocity, taking down anything living and breathing in their path, ripping them apart with their bare teeth. They were nothing more than zombies.

"How good are you with a gun?!" Officer Raymond asked suddenly, turning around to face him thus, taking his view off the zombies.

Cranky didn't want to answer that question. He'd been a pickpocket during his earlier years on the streets. He stole money and food from unsuspecting people, but he never actually held a gun, much less pointing it at somebody before.

"Not too bad."

"Good," Officer Raymond said, throwing him a spare handgun he unclipped from his belt. Cranky caught the hunk of metal with relative ease, though grunting a little at the surprising weight of it. "Is your aim any good?"

"You'll find out soon enough," Cranky said, taking aim at the closest zombie. His hands were damp with cold sweat, trembling like a leaf in the wind. But his ego was too big to succumb to his inabilities. After all, how hard could shooting be? You just aimed at where you wanted to shoot, then pull the trigger. There was nothing to it at all! "Holy shit, what was that?!" he cried, feeling the recoil shoot painfully through his body. The bullet hit a male zombie in the chest, splattering his bone and bits of flesh in an outward spray behind its body.

Officer Raymond gave him a strange look. "Are you sure you know how to …"

"Yes!" Cranky interrupted, quickly taking aim at the next creature that stood by. His hands weren't as shaky this time. Cranky never hesitated to try new things and a life on the streets had taught him to learn new skills fast. And picking up the whole shooting and aiming deal wasn't one of the harder things he'd learned to do. He pulled the trigger again, this time more prepared for the recoil, and smiled as he saw the head of an older male zombie blow up in a spray of blood, bone, and gray matter. It was just like the video games, just like the movies. This was no different – just aim for their heads and there was no way they would get the chance to come close enough to bite and spread their sickness.

One thing bothered Cranky though. How was it that these zombies came to be? Of course, they were notorious in the movies for biting other people and turning them into one of their own. But how did the first one come into existence in the first place? There had to be some kind of reasonable explanation – not including the kind that involved some kind of magic sorcerer trying to take over the world by resurrecting an army of the undead.

Cranky shot a look into the bar and noticed a blonde woman looking at him through the window. She had her face pressed against the glass, eyes squinting to see outside. Her ignorance could cost the woman her life. Was the deaf to the gunshots? Could she not realize that there was a life and death struggle happening outside? Why did she insist on staying by the windows?

"Come on, get behind the car!" Officer Raymond ordered. At first, Cranky thought Raymond was yelling at him, but then he noticed a flock of forms running towards the police car. They were running! They were normal people trying to escape the zombies!

"Help us!" one of them yelled. The following screams were drowned out by the shooting of guns.

"Shoot, Cranky!" Raymond ordered. "We've gotta take them out before they can get too close!"

"What about all these people?" Cranky asked. "What are we gonna do with them?!"

"Protect them for now!" The vibrations running through Cranky's arms and his body were numbing. The blasts from the guns created a high pitched ringing sensation in his ears, yet he continued shooting. When was the gun out to run out of … click.

"Throw me a magazine!" Cranky ordered in a more authoritative tone than he'd intended. But that didn't offend Officer Raymond at all as he swiftly pulled out an extra clip from his belt and tossed it at Cranky with one fluid motion. Cranky caught the flying clip out of midair with one hand, emptying empty shells from his handgun with the other, slamming the full clip into his now empty gun.

More and more people were running in his direction – more survivors! Cranky's heart leapt into his throat at the comforting sight. Not everyone in this city was a zombie. Maybe they had a chance of escaping after all.

Wait. What did he mean by "after all?" Was Cranky's subconscience telling him they weren't getting out of there? Was his mind making itself up before he had anything to say to it? Cranky didn't want to think pessimistically, especially in a situation like this. But his pessimism was almost natural, though one would never guess by meeting him.

He continued pumping bullets into the zombies that approached and they fell one by one, after absorbing so many. But he knew that Raymond and himself alone wouldn't be enough to hold off the approaching undead. They could stand here all night and shoot and never get anywhere out of the city.

Just then, a secondary patrol unit pulled up, alarms whirring, cutting sharp through the death-filled air. Its lights cast the surrounding area in alternating shades of red and blue. "Thank goodness!" Officer Raymond cried, slapping a hand on the side of his patrol car where he crouched, "backup is here."

Another officer, dressed in the same attire as Raymond – a blue button up T-shirt displaying various badges on his arms and black beret-style hat sitting on his head – jumped out of the newly arrived vehicle and drew his gun immediately. "Raymond, are you guys alright?!"

"I've got some help," he replied, cocking his head toward Cranky's direction. "But we're not enough to hold these things off! It's a good thing you did, Elliot."

"We can't continue to stay here and shoot," Cranky said. "We'll be out of bullets before we know it and those things will be on top of us." He wasn't get ready to use the word 'zombie' around other people yet, though he was sure that's what they called those things, since even after being in the city for a few hours, Cranky himself came to that conclusion. "We need to evacuate the area!" Where the hell was Cranky getting the nerve to order these police officers around? Maybe it was the fact that he'd always been the one with initiative. He wasn't the type to sit down and let someone order him around. Yet, he didn't give authority to others when it was due. That was his strength and his weakness. But the cops didn't seem to have a problem with it.

Officer Elliot threw open his car door and fumbled around inside while Raymond and Cranky continued shooting. Before long, he came out of the vehicle with a large megaphone in hand. Turning it on with an ear piercing shriek, he spoke into the mouth piece.

"This is the Raccoon City police department."

The call to evacuate was short and sweet, giving whoever was left alive approximately two three minutes to arrive at the pickup point. Cranky thought it to be a little short. If the disaster present in this part of town was widespread, there were bound to be injured people. And if they were injured, there was no way in hell they were going to make it within the three minute time frame. Then he tried looking at the situation from the officer's point of view. Nobody knew how many zombies were crawling around the streets. The roads were littered with road blocks and hastily constructed barricades, and only now did he realize what they were for. Upon entering the city, he thought the entire city was having some kind of a city-wide rave or something, so the police had erected the barriers to avoid letting a the riot spread too quickly, should one even form in the first place. He was right about the first part – the fact that they had been built by the police. But his guess as to why had been completely wrong. In fact, a riot at this point in time seemed like a cakewalk compared to the zombies that were shuffling around on the street. The hoodlums that made up the riot were rowdy but mostly harmless. Cranky knew that from his own experience. They didn't eat people alive. Those barricades were to keep the zombies at bay.

"Get in the car van!" Cranky could hear someone ordering from behind him, but he paid the man no attention. "I said, get into the goddamn van!" But Cranky continued shooting, blissfully unaware that the one being ordered around was him.

"I think he's talking to you," Raymond said, motioning his a cock of his neck behind him.

"You're evacuating the civilians in those?" Cranky asked, looking at the beat up police wagon.

"It's all we've got available right now. Besides, the reinforced bars should do a good job protecting people from the zombies. Now get out of here."

"What?!" Cranky cried, looking appalled. Do you really think you can take on all these zombies by yourself?"

"I've got a shotgun waiting in the vehicle," Raymond explained. I'm well armed so don't worry about me. You need to haul your ass to safety, now get going!"

Cranky hesitantly left Raymond, tucking his gun into his belt buckle. 'Take care of yourself," he said.

Raymond shot him a smirk. "I'm a cop. Don't worry about me and make sure you make it out of here alive." Cranky made his way over to a dark blue police wagon, parked with its rear facing him. The doors were open, another officer standing inside, motioning for him to come in.

"If we leave now, what'll happen when other civilians make it over here?"

"There's another wagon on its way right now," the cop explained. "Just stop thinking too much and get in here!" Cranky obeyed, much to his surprise, not because he was ordered to, but because he knew that staying where he was meant suicide. He climbed into the wagon and found a spot for himself directly behind the driver seat, on a bench that stretched the side wall of the wagon.

Cranky shuddered as he took in his new surroundings. The last time he was in one of these, it had been under different circumstances. The bars weren't meant to protect him then. They were meant to keep him away from the general public, after having been caught by the authorities for pick pocketing on the streets of Osaka when he was only twelve years old. That was the first time he'd ever been arrested. He always thought of himself as a great thief … that is, until he decided to pickpocket a police officer who was an ex-criminal.

That being his first time, he was scared – practically shitting himself as the van took him into custody at the police station. But he had only spent the night there. The next day, when the Japanese authorities tried to get some social help for the gaijin child, he made a hasty escape. Being quicker and more nimble than any of those old farts, he was able to outrun his pursuers. Cranky swore to himself that day that he would never get arrested again. The only reason he got caught the first time was because the officer he pick pocketed was bigger and stronger than he was.

So from the day of his escape, Cranky began hitting the weights. There was an underground gym on the outskirts of the city. He went every day without final, working specific body parts every day of the week. The running and hiding he did everyday from thievery had built up his stamina pretty well. All he needed to focus on now was his strength.

Four years later, by the time he was sixteen, Cranky had changed from a small child with the build of a beanpole to a young man with respectable size and definition to his upper body and legs. He didn't like taking shit from anybody and he didn't have to. And that made stealing from people a lot easier. He no longer had to sneak up to his victims and snatch their bags or wallets then run away like the wind. Now he was big enough to intimidate them, bathing their quivering forms in his giant shadow. It wasn't so much that he was huge. Standing at about 5'10 back then, he was around the regular size for a boy his age. It was more attributed to the fact that physically, Asians, mainly the Japanese, were small sized people. And Cranky used that fact to his advantage. Another aspect he had on his side was the fact that he was a foreigner, someone who looked different – so different that his exotic appearance when mixed with his aggressive demeanor would have more of an effect on his victims that if he'd been of Oriental descent. His hair was a flaming, natural red. His eyes were a deep, emerald green, the color combination hinting at Irish ancestry. As a result, he was always the better thief than Kenny had ever been.

Kenny was of Chinese ancestry. Sure, he was foreign to the Japanese too, but he didn't look much different than they did. His was similar in size and build to them, and would receive much retaliation – verbally and physically should he try to so much as steal a woman's coin purse.

Cranky regretted every bringing Kenny into the street scene. During Cranky's sixteenth year, he was out drinking with his buddies on that fateful night nine years ago, he spotted Kenny, then a small six year old child walking out of a house all by himself. The child headed down the pathway leading to the gate, and eventually, the sidewalk. He seemed dazed. Deciding to see what was going on, Cranky decided to approach the boy and see what was going on. It wasn't until he'd gotten closer until he saw Kenny's tear streaked face that he realized the younger boy had been crying, having been through something traumatic. And when Cranky got even closer, he realized that those dark patches all over the boy's clothes weren't shadows – they were patches of blood! Just at the moment that Cranky approached him, the house that Kenny walked out erupted into a giant explosion, sending debris flying everywhere. The force of the expanding heat knocked both him and Kenny down onto the ground, knocking them both unconscious.

From the moment that the both of them had regained consciousness, Kenny remained glued to Cranky like glue. No matter how much the older boy tried to get rid of his little follower, Kenny would stick by his side, as if he'd been welded to Cranky's side. He never remembered the events of the night they met, though Cranky remembered fully well. Deciding not to bring up any bad memories, Cranky decided to never bring up the topic.

XXXXX

Cranky awoke from his slumber slowly, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the sudden darkness. At first, he could only see black spots against a backdrop of midnight blue. But his eyes gradually came into focus and he could make out the shapes of the bench in front of him from the even darker shadows it cast. He was still in the police vehicle. Great. Cranky had spent the first night of his surprise visit in the back of a police van. Where was the officer who was driving?

He took a quick look through the bars separating the passengers in the back from the driver and gasped. The driver's throat had been torn out. Blood had been splattered all over his face. Judging from the level of coagulation of the blood, the driver must've been killed over an hour ago. The droplets were not red, but a deep reddish brow, almost black – it was hard to tell in the night. What had killed him? And why hadn't the attacked woken him up? Well … Cranky didn't really get much sleep on the plane.

Then Cranky noticed the smashed windshield of the van and the deep dents on the hood. Something large had fallen on the hood and smashed through the windshield. The hole it produced was directly in front of where the driver sat.

Suddenly, Cranky felt his stomach turn, as he struggled to hold its contents in. What in the world was that hellish stench? It couldn't have been the corpse. The man was still alive minutes ago! Wait … how long had he been asleep? What time was it?! The smell was followed by the soft moaning of something inhuman coming from outside the van.

Realizing he had no gun, Cranky slowed his breathing and kept very still. He closed his eyes and willed the thing to go away, willed himself to wake up from this nightmare … for the second time that night. But the smell didn't leave, and the footsteps continued to make their god awful shuffling noise. But it wasn't until the rotting fists of the undead beast outside began beating on the locked back door of the wagon that Cranky's heartbeat increased in rate.