Vammy: So glad to hear from you! I must apologize again for my lack of contact just cause I've been so busy during the Christmas season. You've pretty much heard everything already. But you're right, your fic takes place after this one but before Act 6. That's because my first RE fic (Kenny's story) extends to after Raccoon City's demise by three months (that would be the RE: Code Veronica time frame), but this one will not. This story will end as soon as Raccoon City is destroyed – which gives Cranky roughly three months to fool around with Juli and Cammy, as will be depicted in your story, BEFORE Kenny returns to Osaka and meets up with them. whew Was that confusing enough?

E-Z B: That being the case, I hope you enjoy reading this story. I'm attempting to cross over some elements from the first story, this chapter being the first of them. Here's hoping it works.

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The scratching and pounding on the back door of the police wagon never stopped. The undead never seemed to give up on their prey. Cranky forced away his instinct to panic – to panic would mean losing total control, and he couldn't afford to lose it if he wanted to survive. He chewed on his lower lip and took note of the cold sweat on his forehead, in his palms, and on his back. Is this how he wanted to die? Like a rat cowering at the back of his cage?

"Come on, buddy," he whispered, "get a hold of yourself. How are you supposed to help Kenny when you can't even help yourself?" Cranky gulped down a huge ball of spit forming in his throat and slowly stood up against the will of his own two legs. What did he know about zombies from those horror movies he used to sneak into the theaters and watch? Individually, they were slow and stupid, though incredibly strong and dangerous in numbers. Judging from the noise, there was only one or two trying to get at him from outside the van, but not more than four of them. There hadn't been that much shuffling of feet and the moans seemed to come from only one throat. It was hard to tell if there was just one mutated voice from the rotting vocal cords, or a whole chorus.

Cranky searched the interior of the van to find anything he could use to protect himself. There was a crowbar lying on the ground, beside the wall separating him from the driver seat. On the opposite wall of the van there was a built in shelf with some boxes. He slowly reached over, making a little noise as he could and felt the box – there was no lid. Running his fingers along the lines of the contents, he could tell it was made of heavy duty paper – possibly cardboard. He tried wrapping his fingers around its edges, but couldn't pull it out of its box silently enough.

Why was he so intent on remaining silent? The zombies knew he was there already! Throwing the stealthy approach out the window, Cranky seized the box with both hands, his heart beating in his chest, and turned it upside down. The contents fell all over the dark floor, creating a loud thud as they hit. The pounding outside the van grew more intense. Cranky quickly squat down and ran his hands over the floor of the van. He could've sworn he heard some metallic clinking as the contents hit. With any luck, they would be bullets. Now all he had to do was find a shotgun – and that wouldn't be hard. This being a town in the middle of nowhere, probably once inhabited by rednecks, he was bound to successfully find a shotgun in somebody's house. And hopefully the ammunition in the van with him were shotgun shells – if they were even ammunition to begin with.

But after his hands wrapped around the ammunition case, he picked it up and opened the flip-up lid. He unconsciously let out a sigh of relief when he realized they were bullets. But he was curious – why in the world would the police keep ammunition on a shelf in the back of the van where the criminals were supposed to go? Maybe they were just stored there to fight off the zombies?

CRASH!

The doors to the van flew open, sending inside the cold night air and the sick stench of death. There standing at the entrance to the van, trying to crawl up and in were two zombies in two very different stages of decay. The closer one, getting into the van, had the skin on half its face hanging off in one sick, slimy flap, revealing graying muscle underneath. It looked hungrily at Cranky with one working eye, the other dangling by a nerve out from its socket. The clothes on its body were nothing but smelly bits of cloth, most of it having been torn off by … Cranky didn't want to know where that walking corpse had been. The second one, following its friend looked freshly dead. It looked like a regular human, with a recognizable face – had Cranky actually known him. It couldn't have been older than twenty – just a young college kid with a backwards facing baseball cap and shaggy hair fanning over its forehead from underneath the cap.

Cranky instinctively reached for the crowbar and swung it forward with all his might, catching the first zombie in the jaw, ripping it off in one swift motion. The large hunk of bone flew from the creature and hit the side of the van with a loud, metallic clang, denting it. The zombie continued its approach regardless, even though the blow had snapped its neck. Wait … was the body still moving? Or was its nerves still acting up? The second proved to be true once the creature fell backward onto the road outside, its brain still alive but its body dead and uncooperative. The body of the first proved to be rather difficult obstacle for the second zombie.

It tripped over its companion and began crawling towards the back of the van. Taking advantage of the opportunity, Cranky jumped from the van, making sure that he landed on the skull of the crawling cannibal. Being a fresh corpse, the skull hadn't decayed enough for Cranky to crush it when he landed with both heels on the back of its head, forcing its face painfully into the pavement. He had to fight to keep his balance, but was successful in the attempt. Running from the two zombies he just killed with the crowbar in his hand and the box of shotgun ammunition tucked under his other arm, he made a dash for the streets.

He'd run a few good city blocks before he grew weary and stopped to catch his breath. A refreshing breeze blew about his body, sending his black T-shirt into ripples in the wind. The air was beginning to chill him a little too, and the decaying flesh smell of death still lingered. He scanned the surrounding area for anything that might come at him while he tried to catch his breath. But he spotted nothing but vehicles scattered randomly throughout the street. Mitsubishis, Toyotas, Fords – random vehicles whether they were vans, jeeps, cars, cruisers, all the different colors of the rainbow suffering various degrees of damage, had one thing in common – they were all abandoned. Loose sheets of paper flew over the street like ghosts riding in the wind. Not a single light in the two-storey Victorian houses lining both sides of the street were on. Any window on the ground level had been smashed either by occupants trying to escape, or the undead trying to get in.

Cranky's eyes fell upon a single police cruiser that had wrapped itself around a telephone pole. Little crystalline cubes of tempered glass surrounding the damaged cruiser – it was hard to tell if the car had occupants, but it didn't matter. What he was after was a gun that went with the shotgun rounds he'd found in the evacuation van. Hell, he'd be happy if he found a handgun.

Working his way to the passenger side of the car – he figured that if there were any spare guns, they'd either be kept in the glove compartment or the boot, he went to check the front passenger seat – and instantly found a corpse. Cranky reeled back in fright for a second but forced himself to calm down. Did he not just kill two walking corpses? Why should this one be any different? It sat leaning over, its head twisted sideways facing towards the left, away from Cranky. Streaks of blood ran down the dashboard from where its head lay, and its torso was obscuring the glove compartment.

He reached his hand out slowly to the corpse, unsure whether it was undead or actually dead. There was a big difference between the two. He placed his hand on its shoulder, surprised to find the body warm, especially on this chilly night. Could it have been freshly killed, like the previous zombie he'd just disposed of? There was no way. The blood that stained the dashboard looked dry – a dry brown color instead of a radiant red. If the body died when the blood was spilled, it would've been cold and tense. But it was warm … and when Cranky pushed it back so that it was leaning back onto the seat, its head fell back onto the headrest too, indicating a flexible neck. This one was still alive!

It was hard to make out the passengers face but he was a youth not much younger than the zombie Cranky had just killed. He opened the car door and undid the seatbelt.

"Hey, buddy," Cranky said, shaking him by the shoulders lightly, "you gotta wake up. It's dangerous out here!" But the teen lay limp in the seat. He swung his right arm behind both of the passenger's knees and wrapped the other around his shoulders, lifting the youth out of the wreckage. But when the dim light of the dying street light revealed the youth's face, Cranky almost dropped the unconscious form onto the sidewalk in shock.

There was no mistaking the black hair, the almond shaped eyes, and the ten year old face though he was actually five years older than that.

"Kenny!" There was no response. But there was no way he was dead. Just to be sure, Cranky pressed the back of his fingers underneath Kenny's jaw, and to his relief, felt a light pulse. "We've gotta get you to a doctor, kiddo." Cranky knew it was dangerous to move someone from the scene of an accident, in case they had any internal injuries that could be worsened just from being moved. But somehow, he knew that Kenny wasn't hurt. Maybe it was the fact that he'd been wearing a seatbelt. He ran his fingers along his joints, skull and ribs, and couldn't find any signs of broken bones. There was a deep gash on Kenny's forehead, but it felt like a cut, not a broken bone. Sofar, everything seemed alright with Cranky's kid brother.

But other questions began bothering him. Who was driving the car? Why had they abandoned it, knowing that someone else was inside? Did they believe Kenny to be dead? His gaze wandered to the top of the cruiser, and he noticed a deep gash running down the center of the roof. The cut was smooth, unlike the rest of the torn metal that was left of the car. What could have caused that?

Something cold and hard brushed across the back of Cranky's skull. He would've turned around to see what it was if the possibility didn't already occur to him, the possibility that it could've been the muzzle of a gun. And the voice that followed confirmed his fears as he lifted his hands clearly in the air.

"Don't you make a fucking move."

"Whoa, just take it easy, man," Cranky said calmly, hoping not to aggravate his mysterious attacker. A soft click of the safety on the gun going back on was heard, and he felt the pressure of the barrel lift from the back of his head. His attacker gave a sigh, and that's when Cranky made his move. With impossibly quick reflexes refined from years of thievery, he grabbed the gun by the barrel and twisted it out of his assailant's grasp. As the handle flung towards him, Cranky seized it with his other hand and aimed the gun directly at the man's chest.

"Sorry, amigo," he said with a slight Spanish accent as he raised his arms after having the tables unexpectedly turn on him, "the way you were kneeling over that corpse and how you stood up so slowly after that … I just thought you were a zombie, man."

Cranky relaxed his tense muscles and lowered the weapon. Facing him was a man about his height with an olive complexion. His brown hair was cut into the beginnings of a mullet. He wore a sleeveless green vest and khaki colored pants, complete with knee pads and boots. And the gun Cranky had snatched was no pistol – it looked like a sub-machine gun of some sort. Cranky wasn't good with firearms. He made his living as a thief, not a robber. Whoever this guy was, he looked like he was prepared for the legions of the undead, ready to kick their rotting asses – well, not anymore since Cranky now had his gun.

"Sometimes, it isn't good to jump to conclusions," Cranky said, handing the gun back over to its original wielder. He tipped his chin and the unconscious Kenny lying on the ground. "And he's not dead either. I found a pulse."

"That don't mean he's not infected, man," the man said.

"Watch what you say about my kid bro," Cranky said, stepping closer to the man, pushing him with his broad chest.

"Sorry, I …" the man looked at the youth on the ground, and back at Cranky who was attempting to intimidate him. "I don't see how you guys can be related …"

"What's it to you?! Just step the fuck away and …"

"Look man, I don't want any trouble. I just thought you were a zombie but I was mistaken. Can we just forget this? I got somebody I need to help and it looks like this kid needs help too. So if we could just work together, amigo, then …"

"Sorry," Cranky apologized, relaxing again, "I've just been through a lot in the last couple hours."

The man placed a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sure we all have." He extended a hand. "The name's Carlos Oliveira."

Cranky took it and they shared a handshake. "Craig Crankurt. But just call me Cranky."

Carlos smirked. "Yeah, that sounds about right."

"So I see you're pretty well equipped to handle the zombies," Cranky said, acknowledging Carlos' garb. "Any chance there might be more of you guys around here?"

"They're all dead as far as I know," Carlos explained. "Umbrella sent us here to rescue civilians. The pickup point is at the Raccoon City clock tower, right by the hospital. I'm just scouting the city for survivors right now."

"Well if I hadn't been here, you would've missed my brother," Cranky said. "He's not dead, although he sure looks like it. How many people might you have accidentally missed already?" Carlos hung his head slightly in guilt. "Look, I didn't mean to make you feel bad or anything."

"I gotta admit, it's hard to concentrate on my assignment – looking for survivors and all that. There's this other survivor I found – she's a police officer resting back at the clock tower and she's infected with the T-Virus. She'll turn into a zombie if I don't find a proper vaccine."

"Hold on," Cranky said, holding a hand up. "So that's what causing these zombies? Something called the T-Virus?"

"I'm not sure how it works," Carlos admitted, "but I know that if you receive and open would from the zombies, you're infected and it'll only be a matter of time before you turn into one."

"And what kind of sick person would unleash the virus throughout the city?" Cranky asked, shocked and bewildered.

"I don't know if it was released in the city," Carlos explained. "Rumors are that there was an outbreak in one of Umbrella's secret labs up in the mountains. But they're rumors – that's it. We don't even know that Umbrella had a lab up there."

"Whoa stop, you're talking to me like I know everything about this place! I just got here earlier this evening."

"You picked a great time to come, amigo."

"Who's Umbrella?"

"Man, you really did your research before coming, didn't you? Umbrella's the pharmaceutical company that practically runs this town. And the rumors – again, rumors – are that they're the ones responsible for the outbreak out in the mountains."

"And do you believe the rumors?" Cranky asked.

Carlos shook his head. "I don't know. I don't ask either. Umbrella employs me, you know."

"Wouldn't the rumors explain the cannibal murders on the outskirts of town?"

"Hey, hey, I thought you said you didn't know anything about this place!" Carlos said, jabbing an accusing finger.

"Someone I ran into in town today told me." Cranky's mind drifted back to Cindy, that cute waitress back at J's Bar. He wondered what she was doing at the moment. He wondered if she was still alive. Cranky was torn at that moment. He wanted to see Cindy again. But he looked back at Kenny, Carlos tending to the teen's wounds, realizing that he'd found his brother and there was nothing left for them in the city. But Cindy … the way she helped him with such accurate directions back at the bar …

"Hey, Carlos," Cranky said, reaching for the box of bullets he left on the roof of the car, you got a gun that's compatible with these shells?"

"Yeah," Carlos replied, unstrapping a shotgun from around his shoulders, "you can have this. Try to use it."

"I shouldn't have a problem doing that," Cranky replied, loading the shells into the firearm. "Listen, I'm gonna have to ask a little favor of you."

"What is it?"

"You were sent here to rescue survivors, right?"

"Yeah," Carlos replied, looking slightly confused.

"If you can look after Kenny for me, I'd really appreciate it." Cranky began stepping away from the wreckage.

"Hold on, amigo, where are you going?" Carlos called after him.

"To look for survivors!" Cranky replied, right before he broke into a full run. He ran fast, his voice already fading into the distance with every passing syllable.

"That's MY job!" Carlos yelled, not sure if he could be heard any longer.