Sorry for the delay, everyone. College is rather demanding. Anyways, here you are. I'm hesitant on where I'm going with this so anyone who has any inspirational ideas you are a godsend.

Chapter Five

"He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you. " - Nietzche

Leon's converse sneakers scraped against the broken glass along the sidewalk of Bybee lane. He stepped out into the street, walking past a car that had been crumpled against a crooked light post, the engine still coughing up smoke and licking flames. Through the fire, Leon could make out a scorched body, contorted and crushed amidst the jagged steel of the car. The night hung suspended over the city, infecting everything with darkness.

The old brick buildings loomed over him, they looked like a painting that had been doused in black oil. Everything was at one time so quaint, so relaxing. Leon could still recall driving down this road, looking at all the art deco style buildings as he passed, the occasional tree rising up from the sidewalk, children playing at a broken water main. It was iconic. And now all was charred, smeared by darkness and blood. Smoke rose from scattered locations to form an overhanging demon above the city, ever-vigilant over Leon as he stalked the abandoned streets. To think, this town would never be the same again. Perhaps it would be rebuilt, perhaps it could saved, or destroyed. Either way, this was an ugly scar on the face of history. What if it wasn't just Raccoon City?

Leon stopped walking for a minute, the thought in his head making him dizzy. What if Umbrella had done away with more than just this town? What if they had stricken the entire state, or the country with the virus. What if it was spreading throughout the veins of mother earth as he walked in the abandoned aftermath of its chaos. No, this didn't make sense. Something about this was wrong, why would Umbrella intentionally infect the city? This town was a major display of their business, and their very foundation. The thought of them destroying something they were so heavily attached to seemed to twisted to be intentional.

Leon jumped at the sound of a shrill caw. He stumbled amidst the debris in the street. Upon telephone wires that crossed the sky above the street, dozens of crows sat perched and watching. Their hoarse cries resounded throughout the city on the foul, chilled breeze. Their beady eyes stared hungrily, waiting for him. The entire city smelled sick.

The only life were him and the crows above, their feathered, black bodies sat on the telephone wires, fat and content. The trees stood now, dead, their withered empty branches like gnarled fingers that pointed towards the black sky. Winds wavered and swam through the streets and about Leon, kissing and softly biting at his cold cheeks and nose as they passed. The smell of a hospital and rotting, festering dead sat upon the wind's breath.

There was something that worried Leon: he had found no bodies so far. Nothing. It were as though he was truly alone in the apocalypse. As he walked the road came to a T-junction as it was cut off by Grant Ave. Leon looked up at the building before him. "Grady's Inn" in large neon letters, their glow absent and now they were nothing but dull yellow tubes of glass. Beneath the sign was another…an ad for "Umbrella: Here to keep the rains of sickness off your shoulders."

Leon stood there, his leather jacket and hair waving in the foul winds as they passed about him. In one hand he clutched the large magnum, in the other he held the folded note that Joseph had left. His deep emerald eyes stared at the insignia: that red and white octagon. He hated Umbrella.

Leon looked around him, taking in more of his surroundings. Down on his left Grant Ave led to the main drag. Their was a small park encased by a black iron-wrought fence. A series of police cars sat smashed up against one another, scattered clubs and S.W.A.T. gear lay scattered about the streets. In the distance Leon could see the corner where he'd walked gleefully away from not too long ago, holding that girl's number in his hands.

Claire.

Leon didn't know why but he felt a sudden rush of concern for her. Was she all right? He prayed she wasn't hurt and-…Oh shit! That's what he was supposed to do, take her out on a date!

Leon sighed, his visible breath billowing out from his lips in the rain. He had to get to the police station.

Leon looked down the other end of Grant Ave where it headed off into the suburbs. It was settled, he would head towards the main drag, and take that to the police station. It was the most direct route unless he were to cut directly through the alley ways, and that was something he would have to keep from doing.

Leon shook his head, slicking the hair out of his eyes as he watched another paper dance past him on the wind. This was too cliché.

That was when Leon heard the moaning.

A low, croaking grunt.

Leon turned, the magnum pointed towards the streets and allies all around him. His hair fell back before his intense eyes, their bright green darting back and forth into the night.

Another groan, louder…or was it just closer? Then a laugh.

Leon began to quiver behind the secure weight of the magnum in his hands. It was his only shield against evil now.

A laugh. Not loud or sharp but a dull slow chuckle that began to echo with the rising croaks and groans. Suddenly Leon heard a sharp, loud hooting sound, a deep guttural grunt that called out like a gorilla. More and more, the sounds began to prosper, growing upon one another, and all the while that gruff, low chuckling fueled the noises.

Leon stepped out into the streets, away from any walls or buildings, spinning slowly, the magnum outstretched and ready. Then suddenly, he heard the car behind him shake, and he turned just in time to see a hunched figure leap atop its hood.

"Shit!" Leon cried as he stumbled back, staring at the man atop the car, his wild red eyes glaring as he cocked his head to the side.

The figure triggered Leon's memory. He recognized it. One of the fast ones. He recognized that smell of medical death and limp flesh as it decays and falls from the bone. Joseph had called them crimson heads, out of a nightmare he had continued to have since the incident two months ago. Now Joseph's nightmare stared at Leon, hungrily spitting through its yellow teeth.

"Get the fuck away!" Leon bellowed, slinging the magnum forth and firing a solid shot into the eyes of the nightmare.

He turned to escape but stumbled in petrifaction, his sneakers losing traction as he stared at them. All of them. They stood in mass, circling about him, some of them quickly leaping forth upon cars and buildings, others dragging their feet or crawling upon the ground. They had become an army, and now they were after him. The dead. The infected.

All of them, their uneven heights and contorted figures emerging from the shadows, torn in pieces, missing limbs, their bloated faces popping with blood and pus as they gnawed themselves down to their bones. Some of them snickered as they came from the darkness, others rolled their heads, their wild eyes all the while on him as they stumbled out.

Leon looked at all of them, smelling the hatred, the festering dead, the stench of the T-virus as it pumped through every one of their infected veins. He didn't know if it was that smell, or the gold and red glow of their eyes, but Leon lost it. The t-virus began to awake inside him, and he felt the beast begin to wake.

His arms quivered, his eyes began to glow, and his muscles began to quake beneath his skin, molding and preparing.

"Dammit, no!" he cried, his fingers clutching at his forearms, "Not now!"

What the hell was happening? Was he becoming one of them?

"Get away!" he roared, spit dangling from his lips as he collapsed to his knees, his muscles twisting.

The zombies reached out, and he wrenched his body back in refusal, taking off in a sprint. He shouldered into them, checking them into others as he ran away. Every zombie he passed was too slow to turn and reach him. Behind him, the fast ones tailed, weaving through the crowd in pursuit. They ran like animals.

Leon fired behind him as he ran, pumping his legs as he pushed himself through the smoke and the dark street. The crowd wasn't that big, maybe forty or fifty of them, and they were scattered out.

One of the fast ones leapt into the air at him and he catapulted a slug from the magnum directly into the demon's chin, sending it into a back flip towards the ground.

Leon remembered that at the mansion they were at first scattered and easily avoided, but they soon began to group together until they formed an army. They were doing the same thing here, building and building. He had to get out of the city before they all found each other.

Leon cut a left down an alleyway a ways down the street from the mass that was slowly making their way towards him. The crimson heads, however, were right behind him.

A large utility truck had blockaded off the other half of the alleyway, and Leon easily jumped and slid with his back along the hood, rolling to his feet on the other side. He rose and began to fire at the crimson heads as they tried to all squeeze over the truck after him. There were only a five or so, and he carefully plucked them off one by one as he backed deeper into the alley.

He watched the last crimson head fall atop the pile of its brethren that had grown atop the hood of the truck, their blood running down the white paint. Leon sighed, that should give him some time. He turned around. It was a dead end. A tall, graffiti-stricken wall stared back at him, and he could only turn right into a small shop, its lights out. The pink neon sign that still glowed above read "Kendo's Gun Shop."

Leon reached for the door which, surprisingly, was unlocked. He stepped inside, feeling the hot breath of ventilation as he shut the door behind him. So, the power worked, which means the lights weren't out…they were just shut off. Someone could still be living-

"Freeze!"

The click of a shotgun tickled Leon's spine. He couldn't see much in the immediate darkness of the shop, but a single light hung above a figure behind the counter. The figure had a double barreled shotgun pointed at Leon.

the figure demanded in the voice of an old man, "Who are you? What the fuck are doing here-?!"

"Whoa whoa, don't shoot me! I'm not infected!" Leon snapped back, at the same time wondering if he could take a direct blast to the chest.

The man paused, watching him intently, the shotgun still suspended in tension. The two stood quietly at opposite ends of the room.

At length, Leon spoke, "Are you serious? Come on! I can talk and I even closed your door!"

The man frowned and let out a sigh, letting the shotgun dangle at his side, "Whew! Sorry about that."

He stepped out from behind the counter, pieces of glass cracking beneath each footstep as he approached Leon at the door.

"What happened to the city?" Leon asked the figure. He didn't like playing dumb, but perhaps there was something he was missing.

"Shh!" the man hushed him, "Hold on!"

He pushed Leon against the corner between the wall and the door and watched through the bars of the window as two crimson heads leapt into view. They sniffed and croaked as they looked around, touching everything with their bloody fingers, their eyes glowing as they searched in the darkness. One of the crimson heads stopped to examine a dumpster. It cocked its head as though it were curious, then motioned for the other to leave. The man waited, pressed up against Leon for several awkward moments until he was sure they had passed.

"I don't have a clue, kid," he said, locking the door and drawing the blinds, "One day they're reporting attacks in parks and school playgrounds, the next this city's infested with…zombies."

Leon got a good look at the man. He was slightly robust, and looked exhausted. Bags under his gray eyes, his black hair a mess atop his head. He was unshaven, his stained shirt barely kept in by his torn suspenders and ragged jeans. He smelled like onions and bad cheese. Nonetheless, it was better than the rotting stench that waited for them outside. Jesus that sandwich smelled good.

"So, you've been here this whole time? How long has it been?" Leon asked as he began to look around for .357 slugs.

"Well, shit really hit the fan four days ago. I was here when it happened, just shut my blinds and locked my door. Oh and don't bother lookin' for weapons, kid. Unless of course you think throwing boxes will stop the dead."

"You didn't try and help anyone?" Leon brought his gaze back to the man who still stood at the door.

"Why so they could steal my shit? No thanks, though now that everything's gone, sure I'll let anybody stay. You can, if you want. Don't worry about anything, I'm keeping a close eye on things," the man said, scratching his stubble.

A deep, guttural moan croaked softly. The two men stared at each other until it died. Kendo turned towards the blinds, removing one hand from his shotgun, reaching past the drawstring, his fingers inserting themselves between two blinds. He opened them.

Suddenly the blinds seemed to dance and wither as an explosion of glass penetrated the silence and arms broke in through the blinds. Leon stumbled back and fell against the counter, immediately drawing his magnum. He watched as the arms grabbed at the man, clutching at anything: his shirt, his legs, his shoestrings, his hair. One grabbed at his finger, bending it until it began to crack and touch the back of his wrist. Kendo screamed, suddenly both his arms bound by the bloody, rotting hands that clutched at him from beyond the blinds.

"Kid! Help me! Help me!!" he pleaded as one grabbed at his face, the fingers penetrating his lips and pulling at his cheek.

Leon grabbed the man's free hand and pulled back, aiming his magnum and pulling the trigger. Nothing. Even the click was silenced amidst all the chaos. Leon dropped the gun and grabbed onto Kendo with both hands, trying to pull him back into the shop.

The door was suddenly thrust open, the wood splitting where the lock was, and they began to come in. Slowly they sauntered towards Leon as he pulled at Kendo, the man's face slowly being shredded by the increasing number of hands.

The zombies reached Leon, their fingers and hands searching and groping, their mouths gaping and closing in. Leon was encased, and he felt Kendo slip from his grasp as he was pushed slowly to the floor, his hair pulled and his legs bound by arms. A hand cupped his mouth and pushed his chin up, revealing his neck that encased the pulsating blood. All the while, Kendo's gurgling screams pierced Leon's ears.

Desperately, his free hand searched for anything amidst the broken glass. He felt the shotgun, and whipped it up, firing blindly at the mass atop him. Blood splattered on his cheek, and he felt something small and hard bounce onto his forehead. He realized they were teeth just as he felt the restraint on him loosen, and he rose and swung violently with the shotgun. He was freed, and he stood, shoving the nearest zombie into a counter.

He didn't know how many there were in the darkness, and he didn't care. He turned for the backdoor he had spotted, and ran for it. Behind him their moans cried out, and one last stifled gurgle from Kendo. Leon slammed into the back door blindly, opening it and running out.

000

Mr. Deathstood amidst the remains of the apartment, breathing heavily. Every breath into his gas mask swelled up to his face, polluting his nostrils with apprehension. He clutched his assault rifle, feeling it quiver in his white-knuckled grasp.

He wanted to kill. He needed to kill. But the target was not present. The target had yet to even reveal himself. The target had yet to unmask himself as the carrier that he was. Come on, Perfect Soldier, proof is required. Hunk was bitter as he continued to search the target's apartment.

Leon Scott Kennedy. The foul sound of that name was painfully ignorant. It had such purpose, such existence…yet it was so futile. That name was a fake, an identity that the Perfect Soldier may have, at some time used, but was inexistent to now. Or should be inexistent.

Mr. Death had come to be apartment first to find more information about this Perfect Soldier. Of course, the information he had received at debriefing was vital but meager. He required more, to hunt this target. He needed more than age, sex, and blood type. He wanted to know what made this Leon Scott Kennedy tick, what drove him, what scared him, and what he loved.

Mr. Death wanted to know why it was he who was chosen as the Perfect Soldier, and not Mr. Death himself- No!
The man stopped and clutched his skull. He mustn't think like that. He mustn't be consumed by jealousy. That was not the proper conduct of the Perfect Soldier. Yes, that's right. This target of his was no Perfect Soldier, simply an ideal theory that had been injected into the veins of a man. A mortal, god-fearing man.

Mr. Death was the real Perfect Soldier, not some ex-police officer. Mr. Death had been kidnapped as a child, Mr. Death had been physical augmented, tormented, tested, trained, and honed. Mr. Death was the Perfect Soldier. He would find this Leon Scott Kennedy, and he would crush him. Yes, that is how he would prove that he is the Perfect Soldier. If there is a world's greatest predator, the second greatest predator must take him down. It is the law of the hunt.

Mr. Death returned to his immediate focus in the dark dwelling of his target. He had been to the roommate's chambers, which were coated in blood. That is most likely was set Mr. Death off. It was always the smell of blood, that got his adrenaline pumping. Now, however, he was in the target's chambers.

He had torn the place apart, looking for any information, and the result is why he became unhappy. The target was human. He had a life, he knew and loved his parents. The target was originally a bad seed, as someone might put it. He had attended military school after he was brought home by the police for illegal acts of a disgruntled youth. He had attended the police academy, he was a black belt in martial arts. He had a dog. He liked alternative rock music. He had a life.

Mr. Death clutched, in his free hand, a picture of this young man with his dog and roommate. He crumpled it fiercely, and stuffed in his pocket. Turning towards the closet, he began to tear through the clothing and the boxes. In massive swipes, he angrily destroyed everything.

Suddenly a heavy box at the very top of the closet came tumbling down and spilled out onto the floor. Papers went everywhere, tons of papers. Hunk picked up the nearest sheet and read:

"…sought to remedy inquiries and answer hypotheses on the elusive study of biological warfare; the volatile means through which mankind harms one another by way of using any natural organism (i.e. bacteria or viruses). Biological warfare has been proven (by records of confidentially performed experiments in the U.S. military) to be one of the most effective forms of devastation.

There are indeed a few flaws with this method of weaponry. An example is that biological warfare was outlawed in 1972 by the BWC, a document signed by 100 countries in order to prevent the advancement and storage in biological warfare. Take note, however, that the document states nothing against the usage of biological weaponry. A second hindrance is the duration of time necessary to epitomize the true efficacy of the weaponry is far too long when immediate action is necessary. Generally speaking, biological warfare is an incredibly powerful weapon, when properly harnessed and instilled. Nevertheless, it is bound by restrictions and a deficiency in alacrity."

It was the work of the Father, Umbrella Corporation. So, the Perfect Soldier had been doing his research. Mr. death began to dig through the other papers, looking for any clues about Umbrella's secret bio-experimentation. He could find nothing, everything was too vague and generalized. From newspaper clippings, to photographs, to documentation that was obviously stolen, Mr. Death could find nothing on Umbrella's underground facilities or their function.

The target had tried to find something he could pin on Umbrella, some form of hard evidence he could use against them. Judging from the magnitude, this was an obsession that had consumed him. Yet he had found nothing. This tickled Mr. Death, although he had to give it to Mr. Kennedy. Some of this information would have been very hard to come by. He leaned down to pick up the box when something hard fell out onto the floor with a heavy clink.

Mr. Death tossed the box aside and looked down at a plastic bag that lay upon the floor. He picked it up and looked at what it contained. A smile came his crushed face beneath the mask. It was a silver skeleton key, diamonds and sapphire at the end.

Now this was important.

Hunk pocketed the key and walked out of the bedroom. As he approached the door to leave the apartment he stopped. There he paused for a moment, before turning around.

There he turned around and looked at the dog standing in the hallway near the roommate's bedroom. He knew this dog, it was the target's pet. It was infected, and clearly the target had not seen it or he would have surely taken it with him or put it down. Mr. Death knew this, because he knew his target's personality now. He could make inferences on the target's every move, at least those that were not knee-jerk reactions.

Now he stared at a part of Leon Scott Kennedy's life. A part that whined softly, trying to growl as it looked back. It was missing a leg, and blood caked its exposed ribs and matted fur.

Hunk looked at it, watching its eagerness to live. What enthusiasm it possessed to stay amongst reality and not fall back into the cool, dark uncertainty. He stood in admiration as it even tried to defend its masters home, as if its master thought it was still alive. What a shame.

Hunk lifted the assault rifle and fired once, listening to the wet thump as the body fell.

What a shame.