Prologue: Dead On Time

Rain fell heavily from the opaque sky above, the fat droplets splashing repeatedly across the looming asphalt ahead, and the parched ground around it. The lone road was shrouded in deep darkness, the thick, dark clouds above hiding what little light the stars and moon could have provided. The unyielding raindrops further blackened the already oppressive shroud of the humid, miserable night. No thunder heralded any lightning to even briefly relieve this bleak night.

Far back down the lone road, a thin light began to approach, but just barely. Feebly cutting through the heavy rain and darkness of the night, the rumble of an engine accompanied it. Riding through the night and rain, a crimson blur shot across the empty road, a single figure mounted atop a sleek red motorcycle, their long, matching coat flickering through the freezing wet wind. Their face was hidden under a black helmet, the dark visor set dead ahead, the eyes hidden behind them ignoring the cold and the unending raindrops that made visibility non-existent. Their hands gripped the handlebars tightly, the exposed knuckles of their fingers nearly bone-white, their riding gloves, along with the rest of their clothes, soaked from the seemingly never-ending downpour.

Ahead, the darkness began to give away just ever-so slightly as a series of street lights illuminated the road ahead. The rider's helmeted face turned just a fraction or so towards the relief. There to the right, just off the lone road, was a gas station. A Mizoil outlet, the logo glowing a bright neon blue.

The cycle pulled into the station, slowing to a crawl as it rode under the canopy, and towards one of the self-service pumps: the one closest to the lone phone booth just on the edge of the station. Their right black boot kicking down the stand to support their bike, the rider eased off the motorcycle. One leg over the seat, and they were standing under the canopy in the relatively drier, if not moist air. Standing up to their full height, they rolled their shoulders slowly, a soft sigh issuing at the satisfying pop of their aching joints.

The rider was a tall young man, dressed in a long red, twin-tailed leather coat, with a black leather strap over his chest, a metal clasp holding it together. His high boots, finger-less riding gloves, belt, and pants were all black to match the long-sleeved buttoned shirt under his coat, the lower hem tucked in while the buttons near his collar remained unbuttoned. A hint of a silver chain flashed around this area of his neck as his arms rose up, his hands clutching his helmet to ease it off, exposing his long, platinum-white hair and young, handsome face, his icy blue eyes partially open as he placed the helmet down on his bike's seat. He ran his left hand through his locks, sweeping his bangs out of his line of vision.

The young man glanced down at his bike for a moment, his intense blue gaze wandering from it to the fuel pump, then towards the glass-encased phone booth. His left hand slipping into his coat's pocket, the youth started towards the booth, his nose crinkling as his handsome face morphed into a sudden scowl. There was a foul odor in the air, like mildew mixed with spoiled food.

Stepping into the phone booth, closing the door behind him - mostly to cut out the stink from whatever it was rotting the air - the rider in red's right hand then snatched the phone off the hook while his left emerged from his coat, his gloved hand palming a small handful of change. Moving his thumb to sort through the coins, he slipped them into the payphone's slot, quickly punching in seven digits before leaning against it with his free hand, waiting as the dial tone hummed repeatedly.

"Come on, old timer, pick up..." he muttered in exasperation.

Relief flooded him as he heard a soft *click,* followed by a meek, childish voice answering, "Hello?"

"Tiki! Sweetie! Hey, it's Tony. Is your dad home?" the crimson rider asks jubilantly, his deeper voice somehow resonating the softer girl's childish aspect. "I gotta talk to him real quick."

"Tony? Yeah, Daddy's here. I'll go get him... DADDY! TONY'S ON THE PHONE!"

The line went quiet, but the young man, Tony, could hear muffled voices and movement on the other end before a new voice answered from the phone, this one deeper than his own, gruffer and roughened with age.

"Tony?... What the hell, kid? Why're ya callin' me so late after your disappearing act the other night?"

Grinning at the sound of the older man's voice, Tony's reply was easy and casual. "Yeah, sorry 'bout bailing on ya 'fore the Shibata job, Grue. Was Enzo able to set you up with someone, or didja try it solo?"

The other man, Grue, scoffed on the other end of the line, retorting, "Yeah, right. He lined me up with some other kid with almost as bad an attitude as yours, though not nearly as skilled, 'course. Enzo tried to haggle with the pay, sayin' since you quit the job at the last second, he should take a larger cut for his finder's fee."

The youth couldn't help but snort at that. "Yeah, sounds like something that fat little bastard would do. Same ol' Enzo... Anyway, I just wanted to apologize for skippin' out on you guys on such short notice. Some, uh... personal business came up on my end, so I gotta take care of that first. I'll be back as soon as I sort things out here."

Grue paused for a moment, and Tony wondered if his partner was just mulling over a response, or taking a drag off one of his god-awful cigarettes. He hated those things with a passion, and his one issue with his fellow mercenary was him being a damn chain-smoker.

"...This about Claire?" the older man finally asked.

His young partner's smile dropped as he stiffened, his free fingers rapping the top of the payphone.

Grue took his partner's silence as an answer. "Thought as much. You seemed pretty steamed the other night after you came back from her dorm. I figured you two had an argument, but you didn't say over what. Didn't feel like pryin', either."

Sighing, the red cyclist leaned back against the glass wall of the booth. "...She left earlier today. Something about going to see her brother in the next town over. Didn't even take her gear with her; her roommate'd been borrowing it," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. "I, uh... I just wanna talk to her, y'know? Try to smooth over whatever it is she's upset about."

"...You finally mouthed off the wrong thing to her, didn't you? That's what really set her off, right?" the older mercenary chastised with deadpan snark. Tony found himself scowling as he imagined his partner's smirk, picturing it as easily as he heard it in his words.

"Like hell I did!" he barked back, wincing at the small angry whine he heard in his own voice.

"Uh-huh..." Grue replied, sounding as smug as a damn cat with the canary. "Look, Tony, whatever happened is strictly between the two of you, and none of my damn business, to be honest. But if ya really wanna patch things up with her, here's a word of advice: apologize."

The younger merc blinked, looking at the phone incredulously before retorting, "'Apologize?!' For what?! She's the one that blew up at me over whatever's goin' on with her cop brother!"

"And knowing the 'sensitive' and 'compassionate' young man you are, you should've been able to simmer her down without any problems. Right?" his fellow mercenary retorted sarcastically.

Tony opened his mouth to snap back, but found no words, leaving him gaping like a fish for a split-second before he closed his mouth, eyes narrowed in annoyance.

"Tony, you're a great partner, and a skilled mercenary besides, regardless of how young you are... But god-dammit if you aren't such a little shit more than 99% of the time. You get under everyone's skin, Redgrave. Everyone, including me. Claire's a damn saint for putting up with you for as long as she did, but it's not that hard to imagine that this thing with her brother, coupled with your natural charm, finally set her off."

"Oh, bite me, ya old fart!" the young rider snapped back impetuously.

The older man's silence was even more infuriating, because Tony just knew he was smirking again as he took another long drag of his death stick.

"Mm-hmm... Anyway, when you catch up to her, try to act like even half as mature as you pretend to be, and then say you're sorry. It might not cool her off entirely, but it'll take some of the heat off of ya long enough for you to work that other part of your charm that lets people warm up to you... 'til they get to know ya, that is. She's probably immune to it by now, so if I were you, I'd throw in a little gift for her as a cherry on top while you're at it."

The younger mercenary wanted to snap something clever back at his older partner, but when he mentioned a gift, his temper cooled down. Reaching into his coat with his free hand, the young man pulled out a small package wrapped in red wrapping paper, just a bit wider than his palm. Eyeing the item for a moment, he slipped it back into his coat, and returned his attention to the phone.

"Already beatcha to the punch on that one, partner. Look, like I said, I dunno how long I'll be gone, so you'll prob'ly need to find some other schmuck to help ya out with those jobs Enzo had lined up. Maybe that Gilbert guy? He seemed pretty good."

Grue made an unimpressed "Hrumph" across the line. "Gilver. Yeah, he made quite the impression back when you and him tore Bobby's up."

Smirking at the memory of his impromptu brawl with the newcomer, the scarlet rider replied, "Well, have him work off the damages, then. And mine, too, while he's at it. I'll call you back as soon as I can, Grue. Take it easy."

Without waiting for his partner's reply, Tony hung the phone back up, sighing heavily, and rubbing the back of his aching neck again. He wasn't too far off from where Claire was supposedly headed, but five hours on a motorcycle, the last hour or so in the pouring rain, didn't exactly help. He wanted to stretch his legs, get a bite to eat from the convenience store, tank up, and then get to his destination.

Stepping out of the phone booth and back into the cold, wet, and stinking air, the motorcyclist scowled again, resisting the urge to pinch his nose.

"Ugh!... What, did a skunk throw up on itself before gettin' sent to the farm?" he mused aloud, hands slipping into his coat pockets as he moved towards the station's door.

His icy blue eyes wandered around the lot, spotting a sign advertising a new burger they were carrying, which sounded a hell of a lot more appealing than the typical fried chicken gas stations always seemed to carry-

His train of thought and growling stomach both came to a halt, along with him, when his wandering eyes spotted a large splattering across the concrete ground just a few feet away from the station's door. It wasn't rain water, but a much darker, shinier substance. Inhaling through his nose despite the foul smell, Tony caught just a familiar yet faint scent of copper.

Blood. And a lot of it. Too much.

Tracing the spatters, the man in red finally noticed the only other vehicle in the lot: a half-haphazardly parked police car, the headlights still on, illuminating the station's store in bright light, allowing the blood splotch to reflect a bright red sheen. Following the splatter, he discovered that they continued into the store itself.

He sighed again, resuming his walk towards the door. "Looks like I missed a party."

Peering through the glass door, the interior of the mart was cloaked in shadows. Right hand reaching out, Tony pushed it open, stepping inside. The door bumped into something on the floor, and quickly glancing down, he spotted a long, black tubular flashlight, the bulb burning bright, enlightening everything in front of it in a thin beam. Following its path, the pale-haired rider saw more blood on the floor, and overturned products off a blood-stained shelf.

"One hell of a party..." he mused.

Reaching down, the young man picked up the flashlight, stepping into the convenience store entirely, the door swinging closed behind him.

Moving the beam of light around, he called out, "Yo! Anybody home?!"

Silence. Heavy silence.

Tony crinkled his nose again. The smell of blood was stronger inside, but so was that rancid stank from outside, somehow. Moving forward, sweeping the beam down an empty aisle, the boy moved towards the fridges in the back.

"Got a customer wantin' to put $10 on Pump #1!" he called out again. "Anybody willing to help a guy out with that...?!"

His blue eyes widened when he discovered he wasn't alone.

A large, heavy-set man was half-way collapsed on the floor, leaning heavily against the wall. Blood covered almost the entirety of his left side, with even more staining the floor around him.

Moving quickly, his boots impacting heavily, Tony was beside the injured clerk in a split-second, crouching down next to him. "Hey, what the hell happened here?! Who did this?!"

Even as the words came out in a rush, the young mercenary could see that the guy wasn't gonna be around much longer. The worker was holding his left hand over the junction where his neck met his shoulder, thick streams of blood seeping between his limp fingers, his skin a ghastly pallor, and fading quickly. The amount of blood he was losing would kill him fast, but somehow, the cashier managed to raise his shaking right hand, his index finger pointing behind him, his eyes glazed and half-lidded. Following the wounded man's shaking hand, Tony saw that the heavy metal door leading behind the fridges for the soft drinks and into the store's pantry was ajar.

Rising to his feet whilst continuing to point the flashlight ahead, he gave the worker one last look while saying, "I'll be right back. Keep your hand on that. Apply as much pressure as you can."

If the injured clerk had heard him, the red-coated rider couldn't tell, so he made his way past him, pushing the heavy door open all the way. The air in the solitary corridor was even colder than the air outside, no doubt from the refrigerators lining the right side of the small hallway. Further down, he could see a faint overhead light illuminating a single door, slightly ajar. Even from the opposite end of the hallway and over the faint buzz of the humming refrigerators, he could hear shuffling movement, punctuated by an occasional grunt.

"Looks like it's a private party," the snowy-haired youth mused, his right hand slipping under his coat, producing a sleek, dark handgun: a Beretta 92. Tony would have preferred to have something with a little more stopping power on him, but it was all he could get from Nell before heading off.

Moving quickly, boots scuffing the dirty floor, the gunman found that pervasive smell from earlier was stronger than ever, almost overpowering him... But something else was tickling the back of his mind, the origin of the scent on the tip of his tongue.

Reaching the door, he pushed it open, sweeping the flashlight out while keeping the Beretta half-raised, ready to act at a moment's notice.

"Hey, I've got a noise complaint! You kids maybe wanna keep it down?!" he called out, unable to resist the shit-eating smirk on his face.

His eyes caught sight of two figures in the back, one wearing the brown and tan uniform of the local sheriff, who was currently trying to pin the second person against the back wall.

The sheriff whirled his head around at the sound of the new interloper's words, shouting back, "Sir, stay back! I've got thi-"

Tony didn't even have a chance to warn the guy before the other person he was trying to pin back suddenly lunged around, throwing themselves atop the sheriff, and pushing him down onto the floor with a snarling growl more animal than human.

"Hey, what're you doing?! Get the hell off him!" the younger gunman exclaimed, snapping the Beretta up, and trying to use the flashlight to line his sight-

-But quickly forgot all about his aim when the second figure snatched their jaws around the back of the cop's neck, a slick, meaty *crunch* issuing. The pinned man screamed in agony for a split-second, before a horrible, thick tearing sounded out a second later as they yanked their head back, taking a large chunk of the cop's neck with them, their eyes meeting Tony's as the piece of flesh hung between their bloody lips.

As he stared back into their strange, filmy eyes, the crimson rider finally understood what that pervading smell was. It was the stench of decay - of spoiled meat rotting away - and it was wafting off this man in waves, although 'man' was probably not the correct word to describe this thing.

Oh, it looked like a man, dressed in a dirty shirt and jeans, but that was where the resemblance ended, for the exposed flesh of his face and hands were an unhealthy-looking gray, the skin looking like it was ready to slough off his bones at any second, his hair stringy matted clumps ready to fall off from the top of his skull, and his eyes a strange, cloudy blue coated in thick film, glaring hungrily back at the young merc as he chewed on the hunk of flesh dangling between his torn lips, rotting yellow teeth stained with blood and filth.

This wasn't a man.

Not anymore, at least.

"...The hell kind of Romero rip-off did I just waltz into?" the bewildered youth asked himself aloud in breathless disbelief, not breaking eye-contact with the zombie for even a second as he snapped his arm out, and squeezed the trigger once.

A loud *BANG* issued from the handgun, flames flaring from the muzzle followed by smoke. The 9-millimetre slug slammed dead between the ghoul's eyes, its head snapping back, body following into a crumpled heap.

For a moment, Tony didn't dare to move, his smoking Beretta and the beam of the flashlight still trained on the now-still corpse, his mind racing.

That thing was eating that cop, took a chunk outta the clerk, and was looking to have me for dessert. Literally... Dammit, what the hell's going on here? his thoughts screamed at him.

He had to get out of here. Away from this stinking corpse, and away from whatever Night of the Living Dead spinoff he found himself starring in. Turning on his heels, coat tail flapping, Tony power-walked down the corridor, heading straight for the door-

-when he saw the heavy set of metal had shut closed somewhere in-between him arriving to interrupt the ghoul's dinner.

Shoving the flashlight into a pocket inside his coat, the aggravated young man snatched the door handle but found it taut, not budging no matter how hard he pushed against it.

"Hey, uh, buddy? I'm still back here!" he called out, his voice coming off as annoyed as a gloved fist slammed on the door, harsh metallic rings issuing with each strike.

Nothing. It wouldn't budge. The clerk must have passed out from blood loss, and knocked the door closed.

Dammit. Now what?... I guess I could kick the door down... No, then I might end up hurting the guy on the other side, or killing him. Then again, he ain't long for this world, anyway... Buuut, on the other hand, do I really want that on my conscience?... Crap. Alright, looks like I gotta find another way out. Maybe there's another door in the office where that cop was getting munched on? he quickly concluded, turning back towards the still open door at the end of the hall-

-When his icy blue eyes widened as he spotted something shuffling out of the shadows.

"...Okay, this ain't funny anymore," he muttered, handgun snapping back up as he watched the ghoul stagger towards him, groaning hungrily, its rotting eyes locked on him, black, sluggish blood oozing out from the fresh hole on its face like molasses on a tree's bark.

Headshots always work in the movies! What the hell is this crap?!

"I hate it when people break the rules," Tony griped, squeezing the trigger twice.

Two shots banged out, slamming home on the rotting monstrosity's forehead. The walking corpse stopped, head snapping back and stumbling backwards. But it didn't fall, a long, rasping hiss issuing from between its bloody jaws. One of hunger and impotent anger.

Eyes narrowing in annoyance more than anything else, the peeved merc marched towards the staggering stiff, shoving his handgun back into his coat while easily dodging around its sudden lunge. As soon as he was directly behind it, the rider snatched the ghoul by its head, and gave it a quick, strong twist. A hideous *crack* of breaking bone issued out, and the corpse crumbled into a heap. The red-coated man kicked it once, but it only rolled with the strike lifelessly, truly dead for good.

"Figured that would work. Rule-breakin' cheat," he hissed before turning and quickly storming back into the office.

His eyes lingered on the cop's corpse, blood staining most of the back of his shirt. Still, the body seemed to have no interest in getting back up. Walking through some rows of canned goods and generic food brand boxes, Tony found the only other door out of the office next to a line of lockers.

Hand snatching the handle, his disbelief skyrocketed when he found it locked, his brow furrowing as he grounded his jaw in unrestrained fury.

"Screw this!" the brash young man raged, booted foot whipping out, the sudden kick nearly knocking the cheap wood off its hinges, the broken lock clattering onto the floor. He stomped back out into the station's market-

-and stopped dead in his tracks when he saw another ghoul, this one missing its nose, blood all over its face and hands, staggering against a metal rack of chips and snacks. Up ahead, the rider spotted the store clerk stumbling back up against the door to the fridge corridor, only now his pallor was an unearthly white, no fresh blood seeping from the ragged bite mark on his neck any longer, his eyes clouded over, and jaws open as he groaned in hunger. Up by the front of the store, another ghoul shuffled against a shelf of boxed goods, moaning loudly.

"...Man, I never thought I'd see the day I'd actually come across a party this crazy," he murmured while his mind raced.

He couldn't kill them all, he realized. He didn't have enough ammo, and if even one of them managed to latch onto him while he was trying to break another's neck, he might lose a chunk of himself to their nasty teeth. And if the fact that the clerk was now among the dead men walking was anything to go by, he definitely didn't need to get bit.

Tony hated gunning and running, as it wasn't his style... but pragmatism won out for once.

"Sorry to dine and dash, fellas, but I'm strictly off the menu!" the white-haired youth quipped, dodging past the rather rotund and freshly-undead clerk, who groaned hungrily after him, large arms raising up like a sleepwalkers.

As he dashed for the front door, the zombie closest to him knocked over a shelf of food stuff in its desperate lunge, missing him by bare inches.

"Clean-up on aisle one!" he cackled, his humor somehow surviving despite the sheer terror he should have felt confronting the very real, very undead walking corpses around him.

Not that this ain't my first time dealin' with oddball crap like this, he reminded himself, charging for the front door-

-when a flash of hot-pink suddenly slammed it open, forcing the young gunman to bring his firearm back up in snap... before realizing he was aiming it at the last person he expected to see.

"DON'T SHOOT!" she cried out, her familiar grey-blue eyes wide with equal panic and terror, arms raised over her head. They relaxed, however briefly, as he lowered his gun, disbelief falling upon her expression as her eyes met his icy own.

"Wait... Tony?!" his girlfriend, Claire Redfield, breathed out, while behind her, something shuffled closely, a moan of hunger following.

Instantly, the Beretta was back up.

"CLAIRE, DOWN!"

She heeded his bark, dropping low, and in that split-second the handgun fired again, this shot slamming into the blood-filled forehead of the ghoul that had been lurching up right behind her, the back of its skull exploding in a shower of gore, and bits of bone and brain matter. The zombie careened back with a raspy death-rattle, collapsing in a heap of blood and rainwater.

Tony quickly stormed right out of the store, the glass door slamming shut behind him. His eyes immediately locked onto Claire as she raised herself back up, her own orbs wide with disbelief at the sight of the formerly walking cadaver that had been moments away from chowing down on her.

"You alright, baby?" he asked her, smoking Beretta still raised, his utter disbelief at both the walking dead and her timely arrival pushed down for the moment.

"Yeah, I... I-I'm fine... Wait, what are you even doing here?" she asked breathlessly, looking back up at him with equal disbelief.

Looking away from her for only a moment, the young man's eyes narrowed.

Well, it's official. My luck is pure garbage.

"How's about you save that question for after we ditch this rough crowd?" His tone was low, and the young woman turned her gaze to follow his, her eyes widening once again to the size of saucers.

"Holy shit..." she breathed, and that was a most apt summary of the situation at hand.

Dozens of rotting, shambling corpses loomed before them, some missing parts of their faces, like the occasional eye or ear, with most of them without fully functional lips, but plenty of blood around the torn flesh where they had been, with a little under half of the ghouls missing an arm or a hand. One zombie had its right leg horribly mangled, a long white shard of bone poking out of its kneecap, but other than dragging the limp limb in a stumbling shuffle, it didn't seem to mind what should have been an agonizing injury.

The man in red raised his left arm protectively in front of his girlfriend, gently ushering her back-

-when a loud *SLAM* of flesh meeting glass issued behind them, making the girl jump and her boyfriend snap his gaze around. Behind them, a nose-less, eyes-filled-with-blood ghoul slammed its decaying hands against the glass door between it and them, snarling with hungry fury, two more of its fellow walking corpses staggering behind it.

Tony turned his attention forward, seeing that many of the zombies were less than thirty feet away, and closing in on them fast despite their slow shuffling. His mind raced, looking for a way out.

Can't get to my bike, or Claire's. Goin' back in the store's a no-go, and I can't kill 'em all... Guess it's either die out here in the freezing rain, or inside by the relative comfort of the condiment counter. Least then I'd know for sure I'd make a tasty snack for these freaks...

His mind briefly flashed back to the cop, and his agonized screams as the hungry ghoul had torn into his neck-

Then it hit him.

The young merc stole a glance to his right-

-and saw the cop's patrol vehicle, the passenger side open, headlights still burning.

"Claire, do as I say, and make a run for that car NOW!" he ordered.

And a split-second later, they were both making a mad dash for it. When one ghoul lunged for the girl, its rotting hand grasping for her long, auburn ponytail, the crimson sharpshooter thrust his left hand out, squeezing off a round from the Beretta, and taking a good chunk of the corpse's cheek and lower jaw off in a flash of fire and flesh. The zombie staggered back, giving Claire the chance she needed to dive into the car, and slam the door shut.

As he reached the driver's side, yanking the door open, another ghoul lunged towards Tony with open jaws, a wailing moan of desperate hunger issuing forth. The elbow of his right arm slammed into the ruin of its face, and his right boot smacked into its gut, flooring the corpse flat on its back.

"Anyone ever teach you about personal space, buddy?!" he snapped, quickly slipping into the driver's seat, and slamming the door shut.

He dropped the Beretta into his lap, grabbing the steering wheel with his left hand while his right reached for the ignition, very aware of the fact that the walking flesh-eaters would surround their car in moments.

God, I will take back half of everything I've ever griped at you about when I was sober if you'll let me have a break just this once, and let there be a-

"Bingo, baby!" he cheered joyfully when his hand found the keys in the ignition.

Turning them, hearing the beautiful sound of a working engine, he snapped the patrol car into reverse, peeling back, the sound of squealing tires rising over the army of ghouls' hungry groans. Straightening the car out as they drove back onto the road, the driver slammed his boot down onto the gas, and left the zombies in his dust, their shambling bodies quickly shrinking back, vanishing entirely in moments in the dark and rain.

As the patrol car sped off, they passed a green sign that read:

WELCOME TO RACCOON CITY, HOME OF UMBRELLA.

Tony let out a shuddering breath he hadn't known he was holding, while next to him Claire continued to look back, her eyes still filled with disbelief at what they had just seen.

Then she turned her grey-blue orbs back to him, looking at him both equal parts expectantly and confused.

Letting himself meet her gaze, her boyfriend admitted, "...Okay, this is not how I pictured this meeting going down."