"Razor's cutting deep this year," the Sheriff said from behind his Deputy, cups of steaming coffee in both hands. He handed one to his young subordinate and looked out the window the Deputy was looking through. Snow had fallen as the townsfolk went about their daily routines despite the cold weather, miners headed for the coal mine, kids fresh from school already declaring war on each other with snow balls. The old lawman smiled as he watched a young girl no older than 9 selling a snowball like it was a gunshot. "We might need to tell the folk to get ready for the worst," Sheriff O'Neil continued taking a sip of the warm coffee.

Deputy Sheriff Drake Hartmann nodded as he gulped the beverage. "Can't be that bad, I mean the worst storm was nearly 50 years ago. But I see your point.Still,some of the guys won't be happy,they hate to board up their homes and nail everything to the floor for a false alarm," Drake said.

The Sheriff sighed. "Welcome to Stonefeather," he lamented as he finished his coffee. Drake smiled at the familiar comment. Stonefeather Lake was a small Alaskan mining community off the Canadian border. The townsfolk lived simply,most of the men worked the mines which was the life's blood of the town. The town was peaceful except on payday when the boys had a tendency to go wild at the local watering hole, Al's. Still it had a peaceful and simple charm that made Drake feel content. It was his hometown after all, nearly three generations of Hartmanns had worked its minessince his Great Grandfather Klaus left Germany after the Great War. Upon thinking of his father, Drake's thoughts drifted to memories of his father, Kris Hartmann whom had passed on recently after an unfortunate mining accident. The bitter coffee turned sour in his mouth as memories, good and bad flowed through his mind.

"We'll probably need to tell the Mayor," Drake managed as he finished the warm coffee. O'Neil nodded, his blue eyes resembled those of a tired hound.

"I suppose.Dave likes to feel in control.Who am I to deny him that?" the Sheriff said as he reached for his jacket and hat."I'll see the Mayor at Town Hall. Do me a favor kid,could you check on Frank before you head home, let him know about the Razor and tell him to watch himself," O'Neil said as he headed for the door. Drake nodded in response.

"Frank," Drake whispered as the Sheriff left the small building that was the Stonefeather Lake Sheriff's Department. Frank Montgomery was one of Drake's father's friends who served together with him in Vietnam. But unlike his father, Frank re-upped and extended his tour of 'Nam. He didn't come home the same man. He wasn't violent or troublesome but strangely reclusive, holed up in a small cabin on the farside of Stonefeather Lake, only coming into town to get groceries or get some books from the library. Unfortunately his library privilages were suspended indefinately after he was found scribling some numbers at the end of the books. 'Vandalism of public property', Mrs.McDonald, the ancient Librarian called it as she reported it to the Sheriff. Not one for severe punishment, Sheriff O'Neil appeased the old woman by having Frank's library privilages suspended for two weeks. The thought of it made Drake laugh. Frank was a good guy. Strange maybe, but he wasn't what some people thought of him. He wasn't 'Damaged'. Slipping on his jacket, Drake headed for the Frank's cabin in the Department's only car.

The drive to Frank's was uneventful as Drake drove the car carefully over the snow-covered roads that encircled Stonefeather Lake, chain tracks or not, the roads were dangerous when covered in snow and ice. Driving at a comfortable pace, Drake watched as some of the townsfolk skate across the edge of the frozen lake. Young or old, by themselves or in couples, they graced the icy surface of the town's namesake, careful to avoid skating too deeply into the lake where thin ice layered the freezing cold water underneath. A small smile crept across Drake's face as he thought of his father and how he tried to teach him to skate, how much fun he had despite the fact that he spent more time having his knees eat ice rather than skate. Drake snapped out of his daydream and stopped his car at the edge of the forest that encircled the lake. The forest too dense to allow a car in so Drake continued on foot as he made his way to Frank's.

A cold breeze sent a chill up his spine despite the thick jacket he wore. The Razor really was cutting deep this year. The Razor was a storm that plagued the town every three years, the only aspect of Stonefeather that ruined its peaceful charm. It usually wasn't a violent storm, just cold as Hell and caused some property damage, but about 50 years ago, the Razor almost wiped out the town destroying houses and collapsing the mines. The townsfolk should have left, but they refused to considering it a test of their spirit. It gave the people of Stonefeather a sense of pride, something Drake understood. It had been a point of pride for the males of the Hartmann clan to be soldiers, Drake's Great Grandfather Klaus Hartmann, was a decorated German soldier in the Great War, his Grandfather Daniel had seen action in North Africa against the Afrika Korps in WW2, his father in Vietnam and his older brother Kent was killed in action in the Gulf. Drake had left town when he was 18 to sign up, but was oddly rejected when he was found to have a rare inconsistency in his blood. Fearing that he might be susceptible to MCS(Multiple Chemical Syndrome), the Enlistment office denied his application. The rejection devasted Drake for a while before he decided to become a police officer in Cameron City, a crime-ridden berg that tested the young Hartmann's mettle. It was after 4 years of living in that underbelly of crime that Drake received a letter from his grandfather. His father,Kristoff Hartmann was killed in the mines. An unstable shaft,the foreman said.He died trying to save a fellow miner. Like a soldier he refused to let anyone get left behind. He left his badge in Cameron and returned to Stonefeather, feeling ashamed that he never got the chance to say goodbye. After he was done with mourning Drake was approached by the aged Sherrif O'Neil who offered him the position of Deputy Sheriff. Drake accepted, feeling that it was his way of giving back to the town that he was born and raised in.

Drake knocked on the cabin's door and waited patiently for its tenant. Night was falling soon and he wanted to get home to see if his grandfather was okay. Not that the old man needed minding, he was pretty spry for a guy pushing 80, still hitting the mines to earn his keep. It was a small miracle the old man didn't overwork himself to death. "Who's there?" a voice came from behind the door.

"It's just me Frank. Drake,"Drake responded. The door opened to reveal a short man in his late 40s, his hair thin, his brown eyes tired. Frank 'The Fighter' Montgomery, as Kris used to call him. Frank smiled as he welcomed the young Hartmann in.

"Nice to see you again Drake.What's up?" he asked as he pulled a chair for Drake at the small dining table that centred the cabin. The interior of Frank's cabin was as simple as it's exterior. At first glance Drake could already see Frank's bed, a closed door that probably led to a bathroom, a stove and a cupboard on the right side of the cabin and the dining table with 4 chairs. It looked like something out of an old cartoon, simpleyet purposeful.

"Nothing much Frank. Sheriff thinks that the Razor's cutting in deep this year. He just sent me here to let you know to be prepared," Drake explained as watched Frank pour a cup of coffee from the stove. He accepted the warm beverage from Frank as the other man took his seat.

"I got that vibe too. Feels like it's going to be rough. Anyway how are things in town? My suspension still in force?" Frankasked with a smile.

"Unfortunately. Sorry Frank. Another week. You know how old McDonald loves those books. You might as well have been spitting in a church," Drake joked.

"Yeah.Old McDonald .God,I think she's older than your grandfather. How is Mr.Hartmann anyway?" Frank asked.

"Why do you keep calling him Mr.Hartmann? You've both met and talked and you're both vets. Always thought that's like a fraternity," Drake asked.

"He fought a different war from ours your Grandpa. He fought real men, real soldiers and for a real cause. He deserves respect. Me? Its been nearly 30 years and I still feel ashamed of the things I did in Nam," Frank said somberly.

Drake nodded. The thought of the strange six-digit numbers he had seen scribbled in the end of one of the 'vandalized' books urged a question. "Those numbers, if you don't mind me asking,what are they?" Drake asked carefully, afraid to offend his father's old friend.

Frank laughed. "What do you think?" he countered. Drake shrugged. "Well that's for me to know Drake. Us crazy vets have our secrets. You better get going kid. Night's falling. Road's a real bitch in the dark."As Drake stood up to leave Frank called out to him. "Drake?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for dropping by.And thanks for showing me respect," Frank said.

"Don't thank me for what you already deserve Frank," Drake said as he closed the door behind him. Frank smiled as he looked at a small trap door next to his bed.

"Good kid, Kris. Good kid."

Night had fallen by the time Drake reached town. After parking the car in front of the station and locking the keys in the Sheriff's desk, Drake took a slow walk home. The streets were covered in ankle-deep snow and dimly lit by the street lights that aligned them on each side. Drake glanced skywards to see the shining stars. They comforted him as he reached the front porch of the Hartmann household. "Grandpa? I'm home," Drake called out as he entered the house.

"In the living room. Grab me a beer while you're there," came a familiar gruff voice. Drake smiled as he made a detour towards the kitchen, popped open the fridge and pulled out two bottles of beer. He made his way down the hall, already hearing the sounds of gunfire and the wild holler of Native Americans.

"Cowboys again?" Drake said in disbelief as he handed his grandfather a bottle. Sitting comfortably in his armchair, Daniel Hartmann reached for the frosty drink without taking his eyes off the screen of their vintage television set. Drake took a moment to observe the old man. From a strangers' point of view, Daniel Hartmann couldn't have been older than 50, with his well-built frame, his 1.9m height, his sharp facial features only blemished by a shadow of wrinkles. His steely gray hair and goatee and his brown eyes,that revealed nothing except fire and determination. Yet through some miracle, Daniel Hartmann had escaped growing decrepit or senile even at the age of 77. In his youth, Daniel had enlisted in the Army during World War 2, lying about his age to avoid being rejected. Enlistment officers were lax back then and Daniel fought for his country, taking part in the North African campaign against the Afrika Korps. 'They were tough bastards,' Drake remembered his grandfather saying, 'A real testament to the Fatherland. Maybe as good as Dad, maybe. Got into a scrape with one of them, we both ran out of lead and decided to settle it with knives. Almost got me a couple of times, but I got lucky.' Like his father, Drake had great respect for his grandfather.

"What else is there to watch? It's not like we can pick up much from out here and with the Razor coming we should be lucky if we get the local channels," Daniel said as he took a swing of his beer. The heater had kept the room at a comfortable temperature as Drake took off his jacket and sat on the chair adjacent to his grandfather's. "There was an announcement. Looks like the Sheriff wants us to get ready for the worst," Daniel said to his grandson.

"I know, I was just at Frank's to tell him about it. The Razor might be cutting deep this year and the Sheriff doesn't want to take any chances," Drake told his grandfather. He drank his beer and watched as a Red Indian jumped onto a cowboy's horse, knocking the rider off. "How are things at the mine?"

"Another accident," Daniel grumbled.

"What? When? Why didn't I hear anything when I got back?" Drake demanded.

"No one got hurt. Greg said that if more incidents occur, he might want to seal off the east tunnels," Daniel said,refering to the owner and foreman of the mines, Greg Smithson.

"They should have sealed them off when Dad was killed," Drake growled.

Daniel shook his head. He understood how his grandson felt, after all who wouldn't? "It's not that easy Drake. The East tunnels hold more coal in one shaft than all the West tunnels combined. We'll eventually exhaust the West tunnels, so the rational thing to do is move on to the East. It's dangerous now, but eventually Greg will bring in better equipment from Fort Holden," Daniel explained, naming the town closest to civilisation in Alaska.

Drake shrugged as he finished his beer. "I'm turning in.Gotta help the Sheriff prepare the town. We'll probably need to pay Doc Indrahar a visit tomorrow," Drake said as he got up from his seat.

"Drake," Daniel said, stopping his grandson as he turned to leave the room.

"Yeah?"

Daniel sized up the young man that stood before him. Drake was a spitting image of his own father, Klaus Hartmann. Raven black hair, soft facial features that fitted his kind nature, thin lips, a well-built frame much like himself and the brown eyes that was the Hartmann trait. He looked at his grandson, dressed in the light blue uniform and black trousers of the Sheriff's Department, the standard issue .40 Beretta holstered at his hip and the silver Deputy badge on his right breast. He may not have been a soldier, but he was a Hartmann and Daniel was proud of it. "You wear it right kid," he said, his eyes focused on the Deputy's star. "Your father would have been proud."

Drake smiled as he made his way to the wall behind his grandfather's armchair. Framed pictures adorned the wall, the first being a black and white picture of his great grandfather Klaus, dressed elegantly in a formal German-Prussian uniform, an Iron Cross worn around his throat. Next to it was a picture of Daniel and his unit, and then a picture of Kristoff Hartmann standing next to a chopper, rifle in hand and finally pictures of family, of his mother and brother, Kent. Drake looked hard at those pictures. Four generations of fighting men. For some reason, Drake couldn't feel any pride in himself...

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Blake Mansion or Casa Diablo as the locals referred to Blake's home was situated east of the lake, in the outskirts of town. Wilson Blake thought little of the town and even less of the townsfolk so as long as they didn't get in the way of his research. Pouring himself a Brandy, Blake mused at what was happening back in civilisation, Umbrella apparently collapsed leaving Wesker to pick up the pieces, an odd cult in Europe that infected a small town with some kind of extinct parasite only to have their ridiculous plans foiled by one man . All child's play compared to what Blake was doing in Stonefeather. "Samson!" bellowed Blake as he eased himself into his chair.

Blake's office was elegantly furnished with Victorian age furniture. A large desk occupied a space before the large window behind Blake's seat, a wide bookcase sat on the left side of the room opposite the fireplace and an over-flattering portrait of himself hung above the warm fires. Blake sipped his Brandy again as he waited the arrival of his trusted Manservant. Looking at the screen of his computer, Blake re-read the message he had received earlier from his employer. There was a war going on between the upper echelon that was once Umbrella's board of Directors. With Umbrella's apparent collapse there was opportunity to be found by the ambitious as members of the Upper echelon raced to claim what was left of Umbrella as their own. So far Wesker and his employer were ahead in the race to rebuild Umbrella but Blake's employer had a wild card up his sleeve. Him. Well, his research to be exact but he was just as valuable, so valuable that he had Blake move his entire operation to a little hick town away from civilisation. 'At least he set me up well,' Blake thought. His employer's plans were coming to fruition and was coming to claim his ultimate weapon, all Blake needed was to prepare for his arrival. 'Then maybe I can get out of this miserable shithole.' A knock on his door returned Blake to reality as Samson entered his office. "What took you so long?" Blake demanded.

Samson bowed apologetically. "Forgive me sir, but the Sheriff was here to warn us of the coming storm, he says it will be harsh and tells us to prepare for the worst," the manservant said. Samson was a tall and skinny man, with an all too fair complexion and his face bony. He looked like a ghoul to Blake but as both a manservant and a lab assistant, Blake found it impossible to fault him.

"I couldn't give a damn about what the Sheriff says or for everyone in this God forsaken asshole of civilisation. The boss just sent me an E-mail, the plan is being pushed up. We can expect him in two days," Blake informed his manservant.

Samson frowned. "But sir, in two days, the storm is likely to hit. I doubt he'll be able to find transportation here."

"He has his ways," Blake replied as he poured himself another Brandy.

"But it all seems...too coincidental," Samson said, concern evident in his usually deadpan voice. Blake considered his manservant's concern. In the three years he had spent working with Samson on the project, Blake had come to respect and value Samson's opinions. The other man's concerns warranted his own.

"Perhaps...but maybe this is all part of his plan," Blake said, unsure of himself. "Even so, we best be ready. The equipment is operational?" Blake asked. A curt nod from Samson brought a smile to his face. "Good. Our time is coming Samson. My research will change the face of biological warfare and I hope the first to taste it are these pathetic coal digging hicks."

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"A circus," Drake said in disbelief, looking at the irritated visage of Sheriff O'Neil.

"A circus," O'Neil repeated, frustration evident in his voice. "Blew in from Fort Holden about two hours ago. Apparrently our beloved mayor failed to inform his counterpart about the storm," O'Neil shook his head. "You talked to Rajiv yet?".

Drake nodded. "Yeah, the Doc says we've got nothing to worry about. He's been stocked up with enough supplies to last 10 years and Candance and Mrs.Peters are going to help him out when the storm hits," Drake informed the Sheriff.

O'Neil nodded slowly. "Alright, come on kid. We've got to have a talk with the Ringmaster or whoever the Hell runs this circus," he said as he slipped on his jacket. "God I hate clowns..."

By the time the lawmen had arrived near the east end of the town, the circus staff had already begun setting up the large red and white big top. "Crap," whispered the Sheriff as the big top grew larger as they drove.

"Nyet! We cannot bring down the big top! It took us hours to set it up!" yelled Sergei Volkoff, the owner-cum-Ringmaster of the circus. He was a large man with a long flowing black beard that gave him an air of importance. He spoke with a thick Russian accent, made more evident by his agitation.

"I understand. But this is for the safety of your people and property. The people of Fort Holden should have warned you that a storm was coming this way," the Sheriff explained to the big man. All around them, colorful circus trailers were being parked as performers and staff members walked about. Drake noted that some of the townsfolk had come to witness this unexpected suprise. It wasn't usual that a large number of outsiders entered Stonefeather, much less a circus. A young woman, one of the performers dressed in a thick fur jacket gave Drake a flirtatous smile as she passed him. Politely Drake returned the smile and focused on the direction of the conversation.

"Storm? I was told that it was no stronger than a breeze. Listen Sheriff, I understand your concern but my people are experienced. We even did a show in Siberia which is nothing compared to this place," the big man said.

O'Neil frowned."Mr.Volkoff, you're experience aside, there no way you can guarantee the safety of your people. The Razor's a real bitch, pardon my French. And it is within my power as Sheriff of the town to suspend your activities for the duration of your stay," O'Neil pleaded.

"The big top will hold," Volkoff said adamantly.

"You're sure?"

"Da.I thank you for your concern Sheriff but it is unwarranted. Still, I shall respect your wishes to suspend all activities for the duration of the storm, but I will not have the big top brought down," Volkoff said solemnly.

"No way I can convince you otherwise?"

"Nyet."

O'Neil sighed. "Alright Mr.Volkoff. It's your property. I sincerely hope you know what your...". The sound of a feral roar interrupted the Sheriff's words. "What the Hell was that?" the Sheriff asked.

"Ah, yes. Come Sheriff, Deputy, allow me to introduce you to the star of my show," Sergei said with a smile as he led the two lawmen into the big top. The big top's spotlights were focused on a single large cage in the centre of the ring. The cage held an extraordinary beast.

"Gentlemen, may I present to you, Kodiak," Sergei said proudly. The beast was the largest bear Drake had ever seen. Stonefeather was no stranger to bears but this one was nearly twice as big, Drake estimated that it was over 800 pounds . Kodiak stood on its hind legs to reveal its towering height of nearly 9 feet. The Kodiak snarled fiercely as it swung its humongous paw at the bars.

"That's a kodiak?" the Sheriff said, his jaw hung open.

"Da, Siberian born. Much beautiful than the bears you Americans have here. Caught it 5 years ago when it was killing three tigers," Sergei explained. Upon hearing that, Drake felt a little concern as he watched the beast stalk around in its cage, drool dripping from its mouth.

"Smokey he ain't. That cage is secured right?" Drake asked.

Sergei barked out a laugh as he slapped Drake's back. "Not to worry my friend. Kodiak's just a little tired from the trip. And yes, cage is secured," Sergei ensured him. The bear uttered a low growl as it stared at the lawmen. Drake swallowed hard.

"Well...we best be off, gotta make sure the rest of the town is secure. Tell your people to stay in their trailers and avoid going out in the open," Sheriff O'Neil said while looking at Kodiak.

"Da. It will be done. Thank you Sheriff," Sergei said.

O'Neil tipped his hat towards the big Ringmaster and made his way out, Drake following him closely behind. On the way to the car, Drake noticed a young woman in a crowd of on-lookers that had come to see the circus performers. In a town of less then 2000 people, Drake more or less recognized most of the townsfolk but this woman stood out like a sore thumb. She was tall, with short black hair and elegant facial features, dressed in a fashionable red fur jacket and thermopants. Drake thought she may have been an Aluet, one of the Native American tribes that were indigenous to Alaska, but her complexion was far more fair. More Asian. "Let's go kid," the Sheriff said, interrupting Drake's observationof the woman. She turned to meet Drake's gaze, her brown eyes met his. She gave the deputy a small smile and a wink. Embarrassed, Drake turned away and entered the car.

Ada Wong watched as the Sheriff's car drove away. Among the crowd of gossiping townsfolk, she watched as the performers unload their equipment from their trailers while some practised their performances like juggling and fire-eating as a sample for the crowd. It had taken her nearly 4 months to track Wilson Blake to Alaska and another 2 weeks to trace him to Stonefeather. She had yet to meet her contact, the deep cover agent that Wesker had inserted into his rival's organisation or even scout the town. Her timing couldn't have been worse as she had overheard some of the townsfolk talking about a coming storm, the Razor. This complicated things, but Ada had her contingencies. Having enough of watching the performers, she headed to town, her mind lost in thought. She smiled when she thought of the young deputy. 'This town may hold promise after all.'

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Weasel hated flying. No matter how much he psyched himself for a trip, a hollow feeling would clutch at his gut. Or maybe it was just the hundreds of genetic enhancements he had gone through since joining Umbrella. The chopper flew smoothly enough to allow him to nod off but after watching far too many aerial disaster movies, Weasel decided his chances were better if he were awake. Next to him sat the muscular Hammer, formerly a European bodybuilder, now a prized member of Umbrella's Super-Soldier project. He sat dressed in only combat pants and boots with a knife fastened around his left thigh, his large muscles revealed. But what he had in muscles he lacked in the brains department. The big man had no problems sleeping or snoring for that matter as he continued to rest his head on Weasel's left shoulder, drooling on his $800 armani suit. Weasel frowned but did nothing as he avoided looking out the chopper's window.

"Nervous Weasel?" said a smooth, cultured voice before him. Sat opposite of Weasel was Jeremiah Smythe, Umbrella's best hope of survival and his employer . Dressed impeccably in a long black coat, a silk shirt of the same color and a deep purple scarf wrapped around his neck, he was a fair man with dark features and dragon-green eyes that gave him a fearsome appearance despite the his ever-pleasant visage. His white hair was neck-length and neatly combed to give him a gentlemanly appearance. A gentleman was a farcry from what Smythe truly was.

"Sorry boss. I just hate flying," Weasel said, feeling a little embarrassed. Smythe chuckled as he looked out the window of the chopper. Snow fell before a sky of dark gray. A storm was coming.

"It's alright Weasel. After all, you were improved to be able to deal with things on the ground," Smythe said as he turned to look at the young girl to his right. "Are you alright my dear?" he asked the girl. Scarlett merely nodded as she rested her head on Smythe's arm. Weasel never could figure her out. From the day he aligned himself with Smythe, Scarlett or Ms.Scarlett as Smythe would refer to her sometimes was always at Smythe's side. She couldn't have been older than 16, her youthful features further accentuated by the brightness of her blue eyes. She had long blonde hair which she wore in a braid. Dressed in a hooded red fur coat and a similar colored dress underneath, she watched Weasel and Hammer silently by Smythe's side. Since the day he saw her, Weasel had never seen her utter a single word to anyone.

Smythe pulled out a small silver pocket watch from the breast pocket of his coat. He smiled as he looked at the time. "Weasel, wake Hammer up," he asked softly. Weasel elbowed the big man next to him hard and watched as Hammer stirred awake.

"You stupid little girly man. I was having such a great dream of me wrestling Muhammed Ali and Sylvester Stallone in a mud match for the title of best tough guy", Hammer growled at Weasel in his thick European accent.

"That's nice Hammer, but I'm afraid your dreams will have to wait. We're approaching our destination soon," Smythe said as he pulled out a small device from his coat. It looked to Weasel like a small trigger, a red button sticking out from the silver cylindrical object. "Polish yourselves up boys. The stage is set, the actors are here," Smythe said turning to Weasel, Hammer and then Scarlett. "The director is ready," he said, adjusting his coat. "The curtain is rising," he motioned to the dark clouds out the windows. Weasel smiled, Smythe had a flair for the dramatic but always in good taste, not some braindead self-righteous dumbass who tries to make himself sound cool by talking all Victorian. With Smythe, it all sounded as smooth as silk. "And the first act is about to begin," he said finally as his he pressed the button of the trigger...