Disclaimer: Yeah, I forgot to add this to the past updates, so I'll make sure to put it in from now on. Resident Evil belongs to Capcom, etc, etc. I don't own it and don't intend to make a profit from this story. Now that's done, I'll get started.

Chapter Two

Grace Lake RCMP Detachment

Pete Milner sipped cautiously from the Styrofoam cup as fast as he possibly could, scalding his tongue in the process. Cursing, spitting and almost spilling the entire contents all over his uniform, Pete wondered if his morning could possibly get any worse. The gloves were soaked. Now he was going to smell like coffee all day.

Better than vomit and beer, he told himself, thinking of how late he'd been up the night before, playing poker with some of the other guys. From now on, like Mom used to say; not on a school night. It makes my head hurt too much to wake up the next day.

After waking up over half an hour late for work with a raging hangover, he'd had to skip breakfast at Hannah's Cafe-his usual sure fire hangover cure-to race halfway across town. He'd come perilously close to running the only red light in town-right in front of the good ol' highway patrol-only to almost run out of gas mere blocks from the RCMP building. Now he was over half an hour late for work.

No doubt Hull and Wake will give me an earful, Pete thought, trying to hurry up the icy footpath to the RCMP's front entrance as fast as he could without spilling what remained of his coffee. He was pushing through the front doors when he had the unfortunate luck to run into Constable Stuart Evans, who had to be the most arrogant and sanctimonious prick in D Division.

"Forget your alarm, ay Milner?" Evans asked with a sneer on his narrow face. Pete was tempted to comment on the guy's losses the previous night, but kept his trap shut. Evans was an ass kisser, and Pete wouldn't be surprised to hear the guy had permanently gotten his lips grafted to old Hull's cheeks one of these days. The last thing he needed was for Evans to go running to the Sergeant crying victim. "Or did you just forget about the briefing this morning?"

"No," Pete replied as pleasantly as he could manage, forcing a grin that felt more like gritting his teeth. "Is it over yet?"

"Not yet. Hull's still going over the final details of the Yates case. I'd get your ass in there if you don't want an official reprimand." The smug grin on Evan's face was almost too much for Pete to bear. "That sort of thing stops young constables from being anything but highway patrol."

Sure, like you'd know, Pete thought. You can barely drive sober. "Sure. I don't have time for this," he said, waving Evans off. "Running late, remember?"

Evans gave Pete a disgusted glare before casually sauntering to his car. "Prick," Pete muttered under his breath before hurrying to the briefing room, pulling off his damp gloves.

Sergeant Hull was finishing up on the details of the Yates case, the school photos of three teenagers tacked onto the whiteboard, Hull's indecipherable scribble filling all available space around them. He'd obviously been through the Derek case; the photo of a smiling family and crime scene shots lined a second whiteboard pushed to the side of the room.

Pete tried his best to enter the briefing room as quiet as possible, but the Sergeant's beady eyes were on him the second he walked in, and to make things worse, Hull purposely stopped speaking the moment their eyes met over the heads of the four other officers. The others glanced over their shoulders to see Pete, most were grinning and recognising a hangover when they saw one. Fairbanks even winked as Pete approached the table. Pete suppressed giving the older constable a dirty look, covering by taking off his heavy jacket.

"Ah, Constable Milner, so good to see you've arrived. I expect you have a good reason for being late this morning?" Oh great. Hull was being his usual condescending self.

Sounds like my goddamned English teacher.

"Sorry sir, I slept in," he replied, knowing it sounded lame as he said it. Oh well; it was as close to truth as Hull was gonna get this morning. Unless, of course, Evans went telling tales. "It won't happen again."

"It shouldn't have happened the first time. Are you sure you aren't feeling unwell like your friend Constable Denton?" Hull asked. "He called in sick this morning, so you'll have to accompany Corporal Wake to the crime scene in his place. I trust you are feeling up to the task?"

Pete sank into a nearby chair, doing his best not to let the embarrassment show, deliberately not meeting the twin stares of the Sergeant and the Corporal.

I've been working here for almost five years; when is he going to let up? Hull hadn't liked Pete since he could remember; even before Pete had left for Regina to start training, Hull had been the first to tell him he was unfit for the job. Of course that had only fired Pete up and made him even more determined to get through basic and he hadn't regretted it. It was only on mornings like this one that Pete wondered if the old guy was right about him after all.

"Of course I am. Never felt better," he replied, flicking through a nearby manila folder labelled Yates. A photo of a dark-haired, almost grim faced boy fell to the table. Pete picked it up and stared at the picture, wondering how this kid could be responsible for such an atrocious act. "Did the RFS expert get out to the site yesterday?"

"As I was informing the others, yes, the RFS expert concluded yesterday that the fire was started using an accelerant. Traces of gasoline were found in the wreckage. According to him it was a very amateur job. Dr. Cooper at the hospital is due to contact us today with his conclusions concerning manner of death, but it is almost a certainty that he'll find evidence of foul play, what with Yates' confession already on record."

Pete frowned at the mention of his friend's father. Dr. Cooper was another arrogant bastard, although he admittedly had a good reason to be, unlike Evans. The cocktail of drugs he prescribed for Lindsay worried Pete. The girl was taking them like candy, so Pete wasn't so sure that the respected Dr. Cooper was such a responsible guy after all. But he kept his suspicions to himself, resolving to discuss it next time he saw Lindsay.

"As a matter of fact, you and Corp. Wake can stop in at the morgue to consult with Dr. Cooper," Hull added as an afterthought. He smoothed his thick grey beard unconsciously. "After you check with the Rangers at the national park of course." Seeing Pete glance up from the file, Hull elaborated impatiently. "Apparently there have been reports that the timber wolves are breaking out of their habitat again." The Sergeant snorted. "So much for conservation ay? Protects the damn wolves and not the people. Anyhow, I need you to ask them about the boy's account. He's claiming wolves killed the others first."

Pete didn't speak, choosing to devote his attention to the file in an effort to lose Hull's interest. That worked sometimes. Unfortunately, this wasn't one of them.

"As I was saying, before Milner interrupted, James Yates confessed yesterday. You all probably read about it in this morning's paper. They didn't name him of course, but it does mean we have someone at this detachment who can't keep his mouth shut…" Pete tried hard to pay attention to Hull's droning voice, but since he'd had nothing to do with the leak, he grew more engrossed in the file. He hadn't been the one to bring Yates in, and being on highway patrol had little to do with the community side of policing the town. This was the first time he'd been involved with something outside of writing tickets and busting underage drivers, so he didn't want to make an ass of it.

Yates had confessed to the murders alright, but even Pete could see an insanity defence in the making. The teenager admitted to running through one of his friends with a poker iron, and had locked the two girls in an upstairs bedroom while he set the old cabin alight, effectively burning the girls to death. Like that wasn't crazy enough, but the kid now claimed he hadn't technically murdered them. According to his statement, the other three teenagers had already been dead.

This is nuts, Pete thought, still doing his best to block out Hull's condemnation of whoever had leaked the confession to the Herald. He narrowed his brown eyes, his brows furrowing. What person would believe it? Attacked by "rotting" wolves and "infected" with the "zombie virus"? What court is going to take this seriously?

He was so involved that he didn't realise the briefing was finished until Wake approached him.

"Milner? You ready?" Corporal Wake's deep voice broke his concentration.

Pete stood, putting down the file. "Yeah." He glanced over at the school photographs of the three smiling teenagers, then at the sombre photograph of James Yates.

What a waste.

"So," he turned to the older officer, forcing a half smile to his face, "you springing for gas? My patrol car won't make to the end of the block, and I didn't have such a good run at cards last night…"

"You never do," Wake replied gruffly. He started for the door and paused. "Is that coffee I can smell? What did you do, go swimming in it this morning kid?"

Pete glanced at the almost empty cup on the table, and then at his damp gloves in his hands. "Uh, no," he lied, "it isn't me. Must have been Evans."

The drive through town didn't take as long as usual, mainly because there wasn't as much traffic. Wake wasn't one for small talk, something Pete was thankful for. He had trouble keeping up with his energetic and motor-mouthed partner, Denton, so the change was much appreciated. He was careful not to drive too fast, aware the snow on the winding rural roads would send the SUV careening off. Still, Pete was rather pleased with how quickly he reached the cabins that lined the frozen expanse of Grace Lake.

"Is that it?" Pete asked as he pulled up in the clearing twenty feet from the burnt out husk.

"Certainly is," Wake replied, getting out of the car. He donned his cap and waited for Pete to climb out. "Used to be the Hartley Cabin before the old fella passed on. Too bad, huh? Don't see this kind of workmanship anymore…"

Pete climbed out after him, pulling on his spare set of gloves. His hands were always freezing during winter, so he kept plenty of spares about. "So what are we looking for?" Pete asked, slamming the door shut and heading toward the blackened ruin of the cabin, his boots crunching in the deep snow.

"Hull wants to make sure-"

A low, ominous growl stopped him. Both officers exchanged looks.

"Did you hear that?" Pete asked.

Wake's eyes had widened and focused on a point just beyond Pete. Puzzled and not a little apprehensive, Pete turned to look at the shell of the cabin.

At first he didn't see it, not with the blackened skeleton of the burnt-out cabin still standing and the enormous elms and firs shading the area. Then the growl began again, this time deeper, followed by the overpowering stench of rot and shit. Pete's mind refused to accept the hulking figure that rose on its hind legs in front of him, screamed that such a creature couldn't survive the injuries this thing had.

But he couldn't deny it. Standing eight feet tall and blindly staring in their direction, the creature lifted its brutalised muzzle high, opening its mouth wide to expose yellowed fangs. Pete didn't fail to notice the lack of frost as it sniffed the frosty air, or the dark liquid that seemed to be bubbling from its throat.

It's not breathing. How is that possible? Pete had been hunting in these forests all his life, had even chanced upon the timber wolves and black bears that populated the nearby national park during whitetail hunts, but he had never, ever, come across an animal like this. Everything has to breathe! It's the basic rule for life!

The creature's eyes were an opaque white in the morning light, malicious as it swiped the air with claws already matted with gore. The heaving mass of exposed red muscle was torn and ghastly, the lack of fur making the creature almost unrecognisable. A ragged gash had torn half of its chest away, exposing rotten flesh and half a rib cage.

What the fuck is that thing? But the longer he looked at the creature, the more he recognised it.

"That's not," Wake was saying in sheer disbelief, as frozen to the spot as Pete, "it can't possibly be."

"It is," Pete replied, slowly reaching for his sidearm. How? He asked himself, how?

"What's wrong with him?" Wake asked, as if he expected Pete to know. "What is it, rabies or something?"

Pete shook his head, not taking his eyes from the hulking, decaying form of Old Ben. The bear roared again, this time sending a foul spray of clotted blood and pus into the air. The rotten stench got stronger. Pete had to physically resist the temptation to cover this mouth. Doing his best not to bring up last night's dinner, Pete took a step back slowly as he unclipped his holster, his eyes drawn to the exposed bone on the thing's skull between the torn and ruined ears, the grey tissue that had to be-

"That's not rabies," Pete replied, pulling out his handgun and flicked the safety, aiming directly for the roaring monstrosity's mouth, full of yellow fangs. "That's James Yates' infection. That bear's dead."

"We should get back to the car and get the hell out of here," Wake said, drawing his own weapon slowly. "He's not lookin' too friendly."

Pete agreed wholeheartedly with that statement. The bear was watching them like they were potential prey. Growing up around Grace Lake, Pete was interested in hunting like any other red-blooded male, and had picked up a fair bit of experience over the years. He'd even encountered Old Ben a few summers ago during a black bear hunt further north. Shouting had been enough to drive him off then, but Pete seriously doubted that tactic would work this time.

Still, he had to try. The animal was very obviously infected with something, but Pete didn't want to kill him. Old Ben was a much-loved mascot around town. Pete wasn't keen to be known as the old guy's killer-even if he'd been infected.

"Back off!" he shouted as loud as he could, aware how pathetic he sounded. Damn hangover. "Go back to the national park! I don't want to shoot you!"

Old Bean roared again, the sound echoing about them.

"He's not going anywhere," Pete commented over his shoulder to Wake.

He heard Wake cock the hammer of his revolver. "No shit son," he retorted. "Gonna blow its head off before it decides to charge us or do you want to read him his rights first?"

Trust Wake to keep a sharp tongue during a crisis. Pete kept the semi-auto trained on the bear as it dropped back to four paws, snarling in their direction. Old Ben's skinned head was a large enough target, but Pete wished he was carrying the shotgun he had in his SUV. A 12-gauge shotgun would go an awful long way to help him feel secure and less like shitting his pants.

Old Ben burst through the blackened skeletal frame of the cabin easily, sending charred timber and snow flying in a blurred spray. Pete squeezed the trigger, aiming for the tooth-filled maw.

Simultaneously, Pete and Wake began firing at the charging bear. It should have been impossible for the badly damaged black bear to move, let alone cross the clearing so fast, but he did. Pete began to retreat towards the car, certain Wake would be doing the same. Fighting back his instinctive terror, he continued to fire, wondering why the damn thing wouldn't go down.

Old Ben charged at Wake, the gut-wrenching smell growing the more pungent the closer he got. Pete kept shooting, aware he'd already gone through five bullets and hoping to God that they'd hit their target. The roar of the beast and the firearms deafened Pete; all he could do was concentrate on Old Ben and squeeze the trigger.

Wake was yelling something at him, but Pete couldn't hear. He was concentrating on the deformed creature attacking them. He watched, sickened, as one bullet smacked wetly into the bear's skull, sending grey matter across the snow but not slowing the bear one bit. The thing was determined to get Wake; changing direction slightly, it absorbed the shots fired from Wake's revolver and plunged on, ignoring Pete entirely.

"Get back!" Pete yelled, not sure Wake could even hear him. "It's after you! Wake-"

Wake continued shooting until the chamber was empty, then began to run for the car, only feet from the crazed bear intent on tearing him apart. With four rounds left in his pistol, Pete knew he had to make them count. He stopped and targeted the creature's exposed brain tissue.

Please please please, he thought desperately, the adrenaline surging through his body as he faced down Old Ben.

The bullets ripped into the exposed cavity with dull thuds, tearing away bone and rotten flesh. Roaring furiously but undeterred, Old Ben took a swipe, knocking Wake to the ground easily. The Corporal's scream rang through the clearing, prompting Pete to take his last shot, aiming for the now gaping wound on the bear's head.

BANG!

Old Ben staggered forward, his claws still aimed for Wake. Desperate, Pete ejected the empty clip and reached for the spare he kept in his utility belt. He couldn't slap it in fast enough; Old Ben's claws descended and a terrible shredding sound filled the clearing. Blood splattered from the bear's paws as it leaned its immense bulk over Wake, filthy fangs exposed and dripping with yellowed saliva.

Pete squeezed the trigger in quick succession, unable to endure Wake's agonised screams as Old Ben's teeth ravaged his body.

The third bullet hit the bear's left eye, sending it sprawling backwards. Pete took the opportunity to look at what remained of his superior.

Wake was a bloody, faceless mess. Pete gagged and forcibly dragged his eyes from the corpse and saw Old Ben now regarding him. The bear's head was even more ruined, the bullets taking their toll on the decomposing flesh. The gory hole that had been its left eye was leaking fluids onto the snow.

I've only got six rounds left, Pete thought, and I'm next.

Old Ben roared again and started in Pete's direction.