But of the mostly single or two-story brick shops and restaurants that lined the street, Leon saw that almost all were dark and in the few that still boasted some light, it didn't look like there was anyone inside. There were plenty of cars parked along the narrow street, and yet not one person that he could see; Bybee, the hangout for cruising teens and college students, was totally deserted.
Where the hell is everybody?
His mind grasped for answers as he crept down the silent street, searching desperately for a reason – and for some way to alleviate the sweaty anxiety that had once again settled over him. Maybe there was some kind of an event going on, a church function, like a spaghetti feed. Or perhaps Raccoon had decided to take up Oktoberfest and tonight was the big kickoff.
Yeah, but everybody at the same time? It'd have to be one hell of a party.
It was then that Leon realized he also hadn't seen a single car on the road since he'd had the scare with the dog ten miles out of town. Not one. And with that thoroughly unsettling realization came the next – less dramatic, but distinctly more immediate. Something smelled bad. In fact, something smelled like shit.
Jeez, dead skunk. And apparently it threw up on itself before dying.
He'd already slowed the Jeep to a crawl and had planned to take a left on Powell, just a block ahead, but that horrible smell and the total absence of life were giving him a serious case of the creeps. Maybe he should stop and check things out, look around for some sign of life.
"Oh, hey!"
Leon grinned, relief flooding through his confusion. There were a couple of people standing at the corner, practically right in front of him; the streetlight was out on their side, but he could see them in silhouette clear enough – a couple, a woman in a skirt and a big man wearing work boots. As he got closer he could see by the way they moved, heading south on Powell, that they had to be monumentally drunk. Both of them staggered into the shadows cast by an office supply store and out of sight; but he was going in that direction anyway – no harm in stopping to ask what was going on, was there? Must've come out of O'Kelly's. A pint or two too many, but as long as they're not driving anywhere, fine by me. Am I going to feel stupid when they tell me that tonight's the big free concert or the all-you-can-eat town barbecue…
Almost giddy with relief, Leon turned the corner and squinted into the heavy shadows, looking for the pair. He didn't see them, but there was an alley tucked between the supply store and a jewelry shop. Maybe his two drunk friends had ducked in for a bathroom break or something even less legal…
"Shit!"
Leon slammed on the brake as a half-dozen dark shapes fluttered up from the street, caught in the Jeep's headlights like giant whirling leaves. Startled, it took him a second to realize he was seeing birds; they didn't cry out, although he was close enough to hear the brushing of dry wings as they took to the air. Crows, enjoying a late night feast of roadkill, what looked like…
Oh, my God.
There was a human body in the middle of the road, twenty feet in front of the Jeep. Face down, but it looked like a woman and judging from the liquid red stains that covered most of the once-white blouse, it wasn't some beer-happy college student who'd decided to take a nap in the wrong place.
Hit-and-run. Some bastard hit her and then drove away, Jesus what a mess…
Leon killed the engine and was half out the door before his racing thoughts caught him up. He hesi– tated, one foot on the asphalt, the stench of death heavy in the cool still air. His mind had latched on to an idea that he didn't want to consider, but knew he had better; this wasn't some training exercise, this was his life.
What if it's not a hit-and-run? What if there's no one around because some psycho gunman decided on a little target practice? Everyone could be inside, laying low – maybe the RPD's on the way, and maybe those drunks weren 't drunk, they could've been shot and were trying to get help…
He leaned back into the Jeep and fumbled under the passenger seat for his graduation gift, a Desert Eagle.50AE Magnum with a custom ten-inch barrel, Israeli export. His father and uncle – both cops – had gone in together on it. Not standard issue for the RPD, in fact much more powerful; as Leon grabbed a clip from the glovebox and slapped it in, feeling the solid weight of the weapon in his slightly unsteady hands, he decided it was the best present he'd ever received. He stuffed two more clips into a belt pouch on general principle; each only held six rounds. Pointing the loaded Magnum at the ground, he stepped out of the Jeep and took a quick look at his surroundings. He wasn't all that familiar with Rac– coon at night, but he knew that it shouldn't be as dark as it was. Several of the streetlights farther along Powell were either shot out or simply not on, and the shadows past the blood-soaked body were thick; if not for the Jeep's headlights, he wouldn't have even been able to see that. He edged forward, feeling horribly exposed as he left the relative cover of the Jeep, but aware that she could still be alive; it didn't seem likely, but he had to at least check. A few steps closer, and he could see that it was definitely a young woman. Lank red hair obscured the face, but the clothes were right, denim pedal-pushers and flats. The wounds were mostly hidden by the bloody shirt, but there seemed to be dozens – ragged holes in the wet cloth exposed torn, glistening flesh and the crimson of muscle beneath. Swallowing heavily, Leon quickly switched the gun to his left hand and crouched down next to her. The cool, clammy skin yielded easily beneath his finger– tips as he touched her throat, pressing his first two fingers against the carotid. A few seconds passed, seconds that made him feel horribly young and afraid as he tried to remember the procedure for CPR and prayed, at the same time, that he would feel a pulse.
Five compressions, two short breaths, keep my el-bows locked and come on please don't be dead…
He couldn't find it, and didn't want to wait one more second. He tucked the Magnum into his belt and grabbed her shoulders to turn her over, to check for breathing, but as he started to lift, he saw some– thing that made him lay her down again, his heart a twisting knot in his chest. The victim's shirt had pulled out of her pants enough for him to see that her spine and part of her ribcage were exposed, the still-fleshy knobs of verte– brae shining and red, the narrow, curving ribs disap-pearing into masses of shredded tissue. It was like she'd been knocked down and… chewed on. Infor– mation that Leon had disregarded as unimportant suddenly registered, and even as the few facts he had clicked into place, he felt the first inky tendrils of real fear slither into his mind.
The crows couldn't have done this, would've taken them hours, and who the hell ever heard of crows flocking after dark to eat? And that shit-smell, it's not coming from her, she died recently, and… Cannibal. Murders. No. No way. For that to happen, for a person to have been killed and then partially-devoured on a city street with no one to stop it…
… and with enough time to pass for scavengers to come – for that to happen, the killers would have had to slaughter most if not all of the population. Doesn't seem likely? Fine. Then what's that smell? And where is everyone?
Behind Leon, there was a low, soft groan. A shuf-fling footstep, and another sound. A wet sound. It took him barely a second to stand and turn, hand instinctively snatching for the Magnum. It was the couple, the drunks, staggering toward him, and they'd been joined by a third, a beefy-looking guy with… with blood all over his shirt and his hands. And dripping out of his mouth, a rubbery red mouth set into his pasty, rotting face like an open sore. The other man, the big man with the work boots and suspenders, looked much the same and the vee of the blond woman's pink blouse revealed cleavage that was spotted with darkness, with what appeared to be mold. The trio stumbled toward him, past his Jeep, rais– ing pale hands as they emitted moaning, hungry wails. Some dark fluid gurgled out of the beefy man's nose and ran across his moving lips, and Leon was over– whelmed by the understanding that the terrible, shitty smell was decayed flesh, and it was coming from them… and there was another one, stepping out from a door stoop across the street, a young woman in a stained T-shirt, hair tied back from a slack and mindless face. A groan from behind him. Leon shot a look over his shoulder and saw a youth with dark hair and rotting arms shamble out from the sidewalk darkness of an awning's shadow. Leon raised the Magnum and aimed at the closest, the man with suspenders, while his instincts screamed at him to run. He was terrified, but his trained logic continued to insist that there was an explanation for what he was seeing, that he was not looking at the walking dead.
Control, procedure, you're a cop…
"All right! That's far enough! Don't move!"
His voice was strong, commanding and authorita– tive, and he was wearing his uniform, and God, why wouldn't they stop? The man in suspenders moaned again, blind to the weapon pointed at his chest and still flanked by the others, now less than ten feet away. "Don't move!" Leon said again, and the sound of his own panic made him back up a step, darting his gaze left and right, seeing that there were still more of the wailing, lurching people coming out of the
shadows. Something grabbed his ankle. "No!" he shouted, whipped the gun around -
–and saw that the corpse of the hit-and-run victim was scrabbling at his boot with one blood-crusted hand, working to drag her crippled body closer. Her gasping cry of frantic hunger rose to join those of the others as she tried to bite into his foot, bloody smears of saliva drooling off her abraded chin, dripping onto the leather. Leon fired into her upper back, the sharp, explosive crack of the massive weapon loosening her grip and at such close range, probably obliterating her heart. Spasming, she dropped back to the pavement -
–and he turned and saw that the others were less than five feet away, and he fired twice more, the rounds splattering red flowers into the chest of the closest. The entry wounds spouted scarlet. The man in suspenders was hardly fazed by the twin gaping holes in his torso, his stagger faltering for only a second. He opened his bloody mouth and gasped out a hissing mewl of hunger, hands raised again as if to direct him to the source of relief.
Must be on something, firepower like that could drop an elephant…
Backing away, Leon fired again. And again. And again. And then the empty clattered to the pavement, another was slammed in, more rounds fired. And still they kept coming, oblivious to the shots that ripped at their stinking flesh. It was a bad dream, a bad movie, it wasn't real and Leon knew that if he didn't start believing, he was going to die. Eaten alive by these…
Go ahead, Kennedy, say it. These zombies.
Blocked from his Jeep, Leon stumbled away, still firing.
FOUR
So much for the nightlife; this place is deadsville. Claire had seen a couple of people wandering around as she'd pulled into Raccoon, though not nearly as many as there should have been. In fact, the place seemed spectacularly deserted; the helmet blocked out a lot of visual evidence, but there was definitely a lack of business going on at the east end of town. A lack of traffic, as well. It struck her as weird, but considering the disasters she'd been imagining all afternoon, not all that ominous. Raccoon still existed, at least, and as she headed for the twenty-four-hour diner off Powell, she saw a fairly large group of partyers walking down the middle of a side street. Drunken frat boys, if she remembered her last visit clearly. Obnoxious, but hardly the horsemen of the apocalypse.
No bombed-out ruins, no dying fires, no air-raid sirens; so far, so good.
She'd planned to head straight for Chris's apart-ment before she realized that she'd be passing Em– my's on the way. Chris couldn't cook worth a damn; consequently, he lived on cereal, cold sandwiches, and dinner at Emmy's about six nights a week; even if he wasn't there, it might be worth it to stop in and ask one of the waitresses if they'd seen him lately. As Claire pulled the Softail to a gentle stop in front of Emmy's, she noticed a couple of rats scurrying for cover from atop a garbage can on the sidewalk. She put down the stand and unstraddled the bike, taking off her helmet and setting it on the warm seat. Shaking out her ponytail, she wrinkled her nose in disgust; from the smell of things, the trash had been sitting out for quite a while. Whatever they were throwing away gave off a seriously toxic stink. Before going in, she chafed her bare legs and arms lightly, as much to warm them as to wipe off the top layer of road grime. Shorts and a vest were no match for the October night, and it reminded her once again of how dumb she'd been to ride bare. Chris would give her one hell of a lecture…
… but not here.
The building's glass front gave her a clear look at the well-lit, homey restaurant, from the bolted red stools at the lunch counter to the padded booths lining the walls and there wasn't a soul in sight. Claire frowned, her initial disappointment giving way to confusion. Having visited Chris pretty regularly over the last few years, she'd been to the diner at all hours of the day and night; they were both night owls, often deciding to go out for cheeseburgers at three in the morning – which meant Emmy's every time. And there was always someone at Emmy's, chatting with one of the pink polyester-clad waitresses or hunched over a cup of coffee with a newspaper, no matter what time it was.
So where are they? It's not even nine o'clock…
The sign said Open, and she wasn't going to find out standing in the street. With a last glance at her bike, she opened the door and stepped inside. Taking a deep breath, she called out hopefully.
"Hello? Anyone here?"
Her voice seemed somehow flat in the muted silence of the empty restaurant; except for the soft hum of the ceiling fans overhead, there wasn't a sound. There was the familiar smell of stale grease in the air, but something else, too – a scent that was bitter and yet soft, like rotting flowers. The restaurant was L-shaped, booths stretching off in front of her and to the left. Walking slowly, Claire headed straight; at the end of the lunch counter was the wait station, and past that the kitchen; if Emmy's was open, the staff would probably be hanging out there, maybe as surprised as she was that there were no customers…
… except that wouldn't explain the mess, would it?
It wasn't a mess, exactly; the disorder was subtle enough that she hadn't even noticed it from outside. A few menus on the floor, an overturned water glass on the counter, and a couple of randomly strewn pieces of silverware were the only signs of something amiss, but they were enough.
To hell with checking out the kitchen, this is too weird, something is seriously fucked up in this city or maybe they got robbed, or maybe they're setting up for a surprise party. Who cares? Time for you to be elsewhere.
From the hidden space at the end of the counter, she heard a gentle sound of movement, a sliding whisper of cloth followed by a muffled grunt. Some– body was there, ducked down. Heart thumping loudly, Claire called out again.
"Hello?"
For a beat, there was nothing – and then another grunt, a muted moan that raised the hair on the back of her neck. In spite of her misgivings, Claire hurried toward the back, suddenly feeling childish for her desire to leave; maybe there had been a robbery, maybe the custom– ers had been tied up and gagged – or even worse, so badly injured that they couldn't cry out. Like it or not, she was involved. Claire reached the end of the counter, pivoted left… and froze, eyes wide, feeling as though she'd been physically slapped. Next to a cart loaded with trays was a balding man dressed in cook's whites, his back to her. He was crouched over the body of a waitress; but there was something very wrong about her, so wrong that Claire's mind couldn't quite accept it at first. Her shocked gaze took in the pink uniform, the walking shoes, even the plastic name tag still pinned to the woman's chest, what looked like "Julie" or "Julia."…… her head. Her head is missing.
Once Claire realized what was wrong, she couldn't force herself to un-realize it, as much as she wanted to. There was only a pool of drying blood where the waitress's head should have been, a sticky puddle surrounded by fragments of skull and dark mashed hair and chunks of miscellaneous gore. The cook had his hands over his face, and as Claire stared in horror at the headless corpse, he let out a low, pitiful wail. Claire opened her mouth, not sure what would come out. To scream, to ask him why, how, to offer to call for help – she honestly didn't know, and as the man turned to look up at her, hands dropping away, she was stunned to hear that nothing came out at all. He was eating the waitress. His thick fingers were clotted with dark bits of tissue; the strange and alien face he raised into view was smeared with blood.
Zombie.
A child of late-night creature features and campfire stories, her mind accepted it in the split-second it took for her to think it; she wasn't an idiot. He was deathly pale and ripe with that sickly-sweet scent of decay she'd noticed earlier, his eyes cataracted and gleaming white.
Zombies, in Raccoon. I never expected that.
With that calm, logical realization came a sudden rush of absolute terror. Claire stumbled backwards, feverish panic turning her guts into liquid as the cook continued to turn, rising from his crouch. He was huge, easily a foot over her 5'3", and broad as a barn…
… and dead! He's dead and he was EATING her, don't let him get any closer!
The cook took a step toward her, his stained hands clenching into fists. Claire backed up faster, almost slipping on a menu. A fork clattered away from beneath one boot.
GET OUT NOW. "I'll be on my way now," she babbled. "Really, don't bother to show me out…"
The cook staggered forward, his blind eyes glowing with dumb hunger. Another step back and Claire reached behind her, felt air, felt nothing -
– and then the cool metal of the door's handle. A shot of adrenaline triumph bolted through her as she spun, snatched at the handle…… and screamed, a short, sharp cry of horror. There were two, three more of them outside, their disinte– grating flesh pressed to the glass front of the diner. One of them had only one eye, a suppurating hole where the other should have been; another had no upper lip, a ragged, permanent grin scrawled across its lower jaw. They clawed mindlessly at the windows, their ashy, ravaged faces awash with blood – and from the shadows across the street, dark shapes shambled out into the open.
Can't get out, trapped…… Jesus, the back door!
From the edge of her vision, the glowing green exit sign shone like a beacon. Claire spun again and barely saw the cook reaching out to her from a few feet away, her full attention fixating on the only hope of escape. She ran, the booths whipping by in a flash of unseen color, her arms pumping for speed. The door opened out into the alley, she was going to hit it running and if it was locked, she was screwed. Claire slammed into the door and it flew open, crashing into the brick wall of the alley…… and there was a gun pointed at her face, the only thing that could possibly have stopped her at that second, a man with a gun… She froze, raising her arms instinctively as if to ward off a blow.
"Wait! Don't shoot!"
The gunman didn't move, the deadly-looking weap– on still aimed at her head…
– gonna kill me -"Get down!" the gunman shouted, and Claire dropped, her knees buckling as much from the com-mand as from the cold fingertips suddenly groping at her shoulder… Boom! Boom! The gunman fired and Claire snapped her head around, saw the dead cook falling backwards from directly behind her, at least one massive hole now in its forehead. Sluggish spurts of blood jetted from the wound, the white eyes filming over with red. The fallen corpse twitched, once, twice – and stopped moving. Claire turned back to the man who'd saved her life, and his uniform registered for the first time. Cop. He was young, tall – and almost as terrified-looking as she felt, his upper lip beaded with sweat, his blue eyes wide and unblinking. His voice, at least, was strong and sure as he reached down to help her up.
"We can't stay out here. Come with me, we'll be a lot safer at the police station."
As he spoke, she could hear a closing chorus of gasping moans from the street, the wails of hunger growing louder. Claire let herself be pulled up, grip-ping his hand tightly, taking small comfort in the fact that his fingers were as feverish and shaky as hers. They ran, dodging dumpsters and heaps of flat– tened boxes, chased by echoing, haunted cries as the zombies found the dark alley and started after them.
FIVE
Leon ran alongside the girl, desperately racking his memory for the city's downtown layout. The alley should let out on Ash, not far from Oak, the RPD's street, but the station was at least another fifteen blocks west; unless they could find transportation, they weren't going to make it. He was on his last clip, four rounds left, and from the sounds reverberating through the alley, there were dozens, maybe hundreds of the creatures at either end. As they reached the mouth of the alley, Leon held up his hand and slowed to a jog, scanning the dimly lit street. He couldn't see much, but from where they stood to the next streetlight, there were eleven or twelve of the creatures to the right, staggering and reeling their way through the stinking darkness. There were only three of them to the left, not far from…
… hallelujah! "There!"
Leon pointed at the squad car parked across the street, feeling a flush of wild hope. There were no officers in sight, that was too much to ask for, but the front doors were standing open, and the three moaning things that roamed nearby wouldn't reach it before he and the girl could. Even if there were no keys, there was a radio and the windshield was bulletproof. They could probably hold out against the walking corpses until help came…
… and it's the only chance you've got. Go!
He hesitated just long enough to see the girl nod, her brown ponytail bobbing, and then they were sprinting for the black-and-white, the pavement a blur beneath their feet. Leon kept the handgun half-pointed toward the creatures closest to them, fifty feet away; he wanted to shoot, to keep them from getting one step closer, but he couldn't afford to waste the ammo.
God, let there be keys.
They reached the car at the same time and split, the girl running around to the passenger's side, and Leon realized with a new kind of horror that she probably thought the car was his. He waited for her to slam the door before jumping behind the wheel, a small, deeply frightened part of him screaming that this was his first day as he yanked his own door shut. A prayer answered; the keys were in the ignition. Leon dropped the Magnum into his lap and grabbed them, feeling that wild hope once again, like there were options besides dying. "Buckle up," he said, barely hearing her assent as he turned the keys and the flashers came on. Ash Street and the creatures that stalked it were bathed in blue and red swirls of pallid color, shadows changing form and thickness. It was a vision of hell and he hit the gas, desperate to get away from it as fast as he could. The car spun away from the curb with a squeal. Leon pulled the wheel right and then left, narrowly missing a lurching woman whose scalp had been torn half off. Even through the closed windows, he could hear her frustrated howl as they sped away, joined by the cries of many more.
Backup, call for backup.
Leon fumbled for the radio, not taking his gaze off of the road. The creatures were scattered but persis-tent, dark and shambling monsters that staggered out into the street as if drawn to the sound of the speeding car. As the black-and-white rocketed across Powell and continued on, he had to dodge several more of them. The girl was talking, staring out at the desolate landscape as Leon hit the com button on the radio, his sense of helplessness rising. No static, no nothing.
"What the hell's going on, I arrive in Raccoon and the whole place is insane…" "Great, the radio's out," Leon interrupted, drop-ping the radio and focusing on the road. The entire city seemed like an alien world, the streets strangely shadowed. There was a dreamlike quality to it, but the smell kept him from believing that he was asleep. The stench of diseased flesh had permeated even the interior of the squad car, making it hard to concen– trate on driving. At least there was no traffic and no people. No real people…
,… except me and the girl. I've got to do my job
here, keep her from getting hurt. Poor kid, she can't be
older than nineteen or twenty, she's probably terrified;
I've got to keep it together and shield her from further
danger here, get to the station and…
"You're a cop, right?"
The girl's lilting but somehow sarcastic tone snapped him out of his panicked musings. He shot a look in her direction, noting that while she looked pale, she didn't seem to be quivering on the edge of a break– down. There was even a trace of humor in her clear gray eyes, and Leon got a sudden strong impression that she wasn't the breakdown type. A very good thing, considering the circumstances.
"Yeah. First day on the job; great, huh? I'm Leon Kennedy." "Claire," she said. "Claire Redfield. I came to find my brother, Chris…"
She trailed off, staring back out at the passing street. Two of the creatures were staggering into the path of the car from either side, but Leon hit the gas and managed to drive between them. The steel mesh screen separating the back compartment was down, giving him a clear look from the rearview mirror, the two shuffling ghouls were now plodding mindlessly after them.
Hungry. Just like in the movies.
For a moment, neither spoke, the obvious question remaining unspoken. Whatever had happened to turn Raccoon into a horror show didn't matter as much as how they were going to survive it. They'd be at the station in a couple of minutes, assuming the roads stayed clear. There was an underground parking lot, he'd try that first, but if the gates were closed, they'd have to cover a short distance on foot. There was a small courtyard in front of the building, a park area.
Four rounds left and maybe a city full of those things. We need another weapon… "Hey, open the glovebox," he said. If it was locked, there was a key on the ring that should open it. Claire tapped the button and reached inside, reveal-ing the back of her pink sleeveless vest; the legend "Made in Heaven" was appliqued above a voluptuous posing angel holding a bomb. The outfit suited her. "There's a gun inside," she said, and pulled out a sleek semiautomatic. She raised it carefully and checked to see if it was loaded before digging out a couple of clips. It was one of the RPD's old issues, a nine-millimeter Browning HP. Since the slew of re– cent murders, the Raccoon force had been carrying H amp; K VP70s, another nine-millimeter – the difference was that the Browning could only hold thirteen, while the newer issues held eighteen rounds, nineteen if you kept one chambered. From the way she handled it, Leon could tell that she knew what she was doing. "Better take it with you," he said. The RPD kept a decent arsenal; assuming that there were still cops around, he could pick up his assigned weapon and…
… and why are you assuming anything?
As Leon took the corner of Ash and Third a little too quickly, the realization finally hit him that the station itself might be crawling with corpses. Every-thing was happening so fast, he just hadn't considered the possibility. He straightened out the car and let up on the gas, trying to come up with an alternate plan as calmly and rationally as he could. Maybe there was an organized defense at the station, but it wasn't easy to feel hopeful with the stink of decay so heavy in the air.
We have three-quarters of a tank, more than enough to make it over the mountains; we could be in Latham in less than an hour.
They could drive by the station and if it looked unfriendly, just get the hell out of town; sounded good to him. He started to tell Claire, see what she thought when the horrible smell of slaughter washed over him and something lunged out of the back seat. Claire screamed and the monster that had been in the squad car all along grasped Leon's shoulder with icy hands, its flyblown breath gusting into his face. It snatched at his right arm, pulling it toward its drool– slick teeth with inhuman strength. "No!" Leon shouted as the car veered wildly to the right, jumping the curb and sliding toward a brick building. The creature was unbalanced, losing some of its grip; Leon jerked the wheel but too late to avoid the wall completely. Metal shrieked and a brilliant flash of sparks illuminated the groping hands and leering, ghoulish grin of their passenger as the speed-ing car shot back out into the street. The dead thing swung its eager arms at Claire, and without thinking, Leon slammed on the gas and pulled a hard right. The car fishtailed, the back end crunching against a parked pickup truck in another burst of fiery sparks.
