Chief of police brian irons was standing in one of his private corridors, trying to catch his breath, when he felt the shuddering impact rumble through the building. He heard it, too – heard some– thing. A distant splintering sound, heavy and abrupt.
      The roof, he thought distantly, something on the roof…
      He didn't bother following the thought to any kind of conclusion. Whatever had happened, it couldn't make things any worse. Irons pushed away from the stone wall with one well-padded hip, hefting Beverly as gently as he could. They'd be at the elevator in a moment, then there was just the short walk to his office; he could rest there, and then… "And then," he mumbled, "that's the question, isn't it? And then what?"
      Beverly didn't answer. Her perfect features re– mained still and silent, her eyes closed – but she seemed to nestle closer to him, her long, slender bodycurling against his chest. It was his imagination, surely. Beverly Harris, the mayor's daughter. Youthful, stunning Beverly, who had so often haunted his guiltydreams with her blond beauty. Irons hugged her closer and continued toward the elevator, trying not to let his exhaustion show in case she woke up. By the time he reached the lift, his back and armswere aching. He probably should have left her in his private hobby room, the room he'd always thought of as the Sanctuary – it was quiet there, and probablyone of the safest areas in the station. But when he'd decided to go to the office, to collect his journal and a few personal items, he found that he simply couldn't stand to leave her behind. She'd looked so vulnerable, so innocent; he'd promised Harris that he would watch out for her, and what if she was attacked in his absence? What if he came back from the office and she was just… gone? Gone like everything else… A decade of work. Networking, making the connec– tions, careful positioning… all of it, just like that. Irons lowered her to the cold floor and opened the elevator gate, trying desperately not to think about all that he'd lost. Beverly was the important thing now. "Going to keep you safe," he murmured, and did one corner of that perfect mouth rise slightly? Did she know she was safe, that Uncle Brian was taking care of her? When she was a child, when he used to frequent the Harrises' for dinner, she'd called himthat. "Uncle Brian."
      She knows. Of course she knows.
      He half-dragged her into the lift and leaned her in the corner, gazing tenderly at her angelic face. He was suddenly overwhelmed by a rush of almost paternal love for her, and wasn't surprised to feel tears well up in his eyes, tears of pride and affection. For days now he'd been subject to such emotional outbursts – rage, terror, even joy. He'd never been a particularly emo– tional man, but had grown to accept the powerful feelings, even to enjoy them after a fashion; at least they weren't confusing. He'd also had moments when he'd been overcome by a kind of strange, creeping haze, a formless anxiety that left him feeling deeply unsettled… and as bewildered as a lost child.
      No more of those. There's nothing else that can go wrong now; Beverly's with me, and once I collect my things, we can hide away in the Sanctuary and get some rest. She'll need time to recover, and I can, can sort things through. Yes, that's it; things need to be sorted through.
      He blinked the already forgotten tears away as the metal cage started to rise, unholstering his sidearm and ejecting the clip to count how many rounds were left. His private rooms were safe, but the office was another story; he wanted to be prepared. The elevator came to a stop and Irons propped open the gate with one leg before lifting the girl, grunting with the exertion. He carried her as he would have carried a sleeping child, her cool, smooth body limp in his arms, her head rolled back and wobbling as he walked. He'd picked her up awkwardly, and her white gown had hiked up, exposing the tight, creamy skin of her thighs; Irons forced his gaze away, concen– trating on the panel controls that opened the wall into his office. Whatever harmless fantasies he'd had be– fore, she was his responsibility now, he was her protector, her white knight… He was able to hit the protruding button with one knee. The wall slid open, revealing his plushly deco– rated and thankfully empty office; only the blank, glassy stares of bis animal trophies greeted them. The massive walnut desk that he'd had imported from Italy was right in front of him and his stamina was going fast; Beverly was a petite woman, but he wasn't in shape the way he used to be. He quickly laid her on the desk, pushing a cup of pencils to the floor with his elbow. "There!" he exhaled deeply, smiling down at her. She didn't smile back, but he sensed that she would be awake soon, like before. He reached under the desk and tapped the wall controls; the panel slid closed behind them. He'd been concerned when he'd first found her, asleep next to Officer Scott in the back hall; George Scott was dead, covered with wounds, and when Irons had seen the red splash on Beverly's stomach, he'd been afraid that she was dead, too. But when he'd taken her to the Sanctuary, to his safe place, she'd whispered to him – that she didn't feel well, that she was hurt, that she wanted to go home…
      … did she? Did she really?
      Irons frowned, snapped out of the uncertain memo– ry by something, something he'd felt when he'd laid her on his hobby table and straightened her blood– stained gown, something he couldn't quite recall. It hadn't seemed important at the time, but now, away from the hidden comforts of the Sanctuary, it was nagging at him. Reminding him that he had suffered one of those confused moments when he'd, when he'd…
      … felt the cold, rubbery jelly of intestine beneath my
      fingers…
      … touched her.
 
      "Beverly?" he whispered, sitting down behind his desk when his legs went suddenly weak. Beverly kept her silence – and a turbulent flood of emotions hit Irons like a tidal wave, crashing over him, crowding his mind with images and memories and truths that he didn't want to accept. Cutting the outside lines after the first attacks. Umbrella and Birkin and the walking dead. The slaughter in the garage, when the bright coppery scent of blood had filled the air and Mayor Harris had been eaten alive, screaming until the very end. The dwindling numbers of the living through the first long and terrible night – and the cold, brutal realization that had hit him again and again, that the city – his city – was no more. After that, the confusion. The strange and hysteri– cal joy that had come when he'd understood that there would be no consequences for his actions. Irons remembered the game he'd played on the second night, after some of Birkin's pets had found their way to the station and taken out all but a few of the remaining cops. He'd found Neil Carson cowering in the library and had… tracked him, hunting the sergeant down like an animal.
      What did it matter? What matters, now that my life in Raccoon is over?
      All that was left, the only thing that he had to hold on to, was the Sanctuary – and the part of him that had created it, the dark and glorious heart inside of his own that he'd always had to keep hidden away.
      That part was free now…
      Irons looked at the corpse of Beverly Harris, laid out across his desk like some delicate and fragile dream, and felt that he might be torn apart by the feelings of fear and doubt that warred inside of him.
      Had he killed her? He couldn't remember.
      Uncle Brian. Ten years ago, I was her Uncle Brian.
 
      What have I become?
      It was too much. Without taking his gaze from her lifeless face, he pulled the loaded VP70 from its holster and began to rub the barrel with numb fingers, gentle strokes that reassured him somehow as the weapon turned toward him. When the bore was pressed firmly against his soft belly, he felt that some kind of peace might be within reach. His finger settled across the trigger, and it was then that Beverly whis– pered to him again, her lips still, her sweet, musical voice coming from nowhere and everywhere at once.
      … don't leave me, Uncle Brian. You said you'd keep me safe, that you'd take care of me. Think of what you could do now that everyone is gone and there's nothing to stop you… "You're dead," he whispered, but she kept talking, soft and insistent.
      … nothing to stop you from being fulfilled, truly fulfilled for the first time in your life…
      Tortured and aching, Irons slowly, slowly pulled the nine-millimeter away from his stomach. After a mo– ment, he rested his forehead against Beverly's shoul-der and closed his tired eyes. She was right, he couldn't leave her. He'd prom– Ised – and there was something to what she'd said, about all of the things he could do. His hobby table was big enough to accommodate all kinds of animals… Irons sighed, not sure what to do next-and won-dering why he was in such a hurry to decide, anyway. They would rest for a while, perhaps even take a nap together. And when they awoke, things would be clear again.
      Yes, that was it. They would rest, and then he could sort things through, take care of business; he was the chief of police, after all.
      Feeling in control of himself again, Brian Irons slipped into a light and uneasy doze, Beverly's cool flesh like a balm against his feverish brow.

      Thanks to a van parked in the alley behind Kendo's, Leon's straight shot to the station had taken a few detours – through an infested basket-ball court, another alley, and a parked bus that had reeked from the sprawled corpses inside. It was a nightmare, punctuated with whispering howls, the stink of decay, and once, a distant explosion that made his limbs feel weak. And though he had to shoot three more of the walking dead and was wired to the teeth with adrenaline and horror, he somehow man– aged to hold on to his hope that the RPD building would be a safe haven, that there would be some kind of crisis center set up, manned by police and paramedics – people in authority making decisions and marshaling forces. It wasn't just a hope, it was a need; the possibility that there might be no one left in Raccoon to take charge was unthinkable. When he finally stumbled out into the street in front of the station and saw the burning squad cars, he felt like he'd been hit in the gut. But it was the sight of the decaying, moaning police officers staggering around the dancing flames that truly wiped out his hope. There were only about fifty or sixty cops on the RPD force, and a full third of them were lurching through the wreckage or dead and bloody on the pavement not a hundred feet from the front door of the station. Leon forced the despair away, fixing his sight on the gate that led to the RPD building's courtyard. Wheth– er or not anyone had survived, he had to stick with his plan, put out a call for help – and there was Claire to think about. Concentrating on his fears would only make it harder to do whatever needed to be done. He ran for the gate, nimbly dodging a horribly burned uniformed cop with blackened bones for fingers. As he clutched the cold metal handle and pushed, he realized that some part of him was grow– ing numb to the tragedy, to the understanding that these things had once been the citizens of Raccoon. The creatures that roamed the streets were no less horrible, but the shock of it all just couldn't be sustained; there were too many of them.
      Not too many here, thank God…
      Leon slammed the gate shut behind him and pushed his sweaty hair off his brow, taking a deep breath of the almost fresh air as he scanned the courtyard. The small, grassy park to his right was well lit enough for him to see there were only a few of the once human creatures, and none close enough to be a threat. He could see the two flags that adorned the front of the station house, hanging limp in the still shadows, and the sight resparked the hope that he thought he'd lost; whatever else happened, he'd at least made it to someplace he knew. And it had to be safer than the streets. He hurried past a blindly reeling trio of the dead, easily avoiding them – two men and a woman; all three could have passed for normal if not for their mournful, hungry cries and uncoordinated staggers.
      They must have died recently…
      … but they're not dead, dead people don't gush blood when you shoot them. Not to mention the walking-around-and-trying-to-eat-people thing…
      Dead people didn't walk… and living people tended to fall down after they'd been shot a few times with.50 caliber slugs, and didn't put up with their flesh rotting on their bones. Questions he hadn't yet had time to ask himself flooded through his mind as he jogged up the front steps to the station, questions he didn't have the answers for – but he would soon, he was sure of it. The door wasn't locked, but Leon didn't allow himself to feel surprise; with all he'd been through since he hit town, he figured that it would be best to keep his expectations to a minimum. He pushed it open and stepped inside, Magnum raised and his finger on the trigger. Empty. There was no sign of life in the grand old lobby of the RPD building and no sign of the disaster that had overtaken Raccoon. Leon gave up on not feeling surprised, closing the door behind him and stepping down into the sunken lobby. "Hello?" Leon kept his voice low, but it carried, echoing back to him in a whisper. Everything looked just as he remembered it; three floors of classically styled architecture in oak and marble. There was a stone statue of a woman carrying a water pitcher in the lower part of the large room, a ramp on either side leading up to the receptionist's station. The RPD seal set into the floor in front of the statue gleamed softly in the diffuse light from the wall lamps, as if it had just been polished.
      No bodies, no blood… not even a shell casing. If there was an attack here, where the hell's the evidence?
      Uneasy at the profound silence of the huge cham– ber, Leon walked up the ramp to his left, stopping at the counter of the reception desk and leaning over it; except for the fact that it was unmanned, nothing seemed to be out of place. There was a phone on the desk below the counter. Leon picked up the receiver and cradled it between his head and shoulder, tapping at the buttons with fingers that felt cold and distant. Not even a dial tone; all he heard was the sound of his own heavily thumping heart. He put the phone down and turned to face the empty room, trying to decide on where to go first. As much as he wanted to find Claire, he also desperately wanted to hook up with some other cops. He'd received a copy of an RPD memo just a couple of weeks before, stating that several of the departments were going to be relocated, but that didn't really matter; if there were cops hiding in the building, they probably weren't concerned with sticking close to their desks. There were three doors leading away from the lobby to different parts of the sprawling station, two on the west side and the other on the east. Of the two on the west, one led through a series of halls toward the back of the building, past a couple of filing offices and a briefing room; the second opened into the uniformed– officer squad room and lockers, which then connected into one of the corridors near the stairs to the second floor. The east door, in fact the whole east side of the first floor, was primarily for the detectives – offices, interrogation, and a press room; there was also access to the basement and another set of stairs on the outside of the building.
      Claire probably came in through the garage… or through the back lot to the roof…
      Or, she could've circled around and come through the same door he had – assuming she even made it to the station; she could be anywhere. And considering that the building took up almost an entire city block, that was a lot of ground to cover. Finally deciding that he had to start somewhere, he walked toward the squad room for the beat cops, where his own locker would be. A random choice, but he'd spent more time there than anywhere else in the station, interviewing and working through schedul-ing. Besides, it was closest, and the tomb-like silence of the oversized lobby was giving him the creeps. The door wasn't locked, and Leon pushed it open slowly, holding his breath and hoping that the room would be as undisturbed and orderly as the lobby. What he saw instead was the confirmation of his earlier fears: the creatures had been there – with a vengeance. The long room had been trashed, tables and chairs splintered and overturned everywhere he looked. Smears of dried blood decorated the walls, splashes of it in tacky, trailing puddles on the floor, leading toward…
      "Oh, man…"
      The cop was sitting against the lockers to his left, his legs splayed, half-hidden by a smashed table. At the sound of Leon's voice, he weakly raised one shaking arm, pointed a weapon vaguely in Leon's direction – then lowered it again, seemingly ex– hausted by the effort. His midsection was awash with oozing blood, his dark features contorted with pain. Leon was crouching at his side in two steps, gently touching his shoulder. He couldn't see the wound, but there was so much blood that he knew it was bad… "Who are you?" the cop whispered. The soft, almost dreamy tone of his voice scared Leon as much as the still oozing wound and the glassy look in his dark eyes; the man was slipping, fast. They'd never formally met, but Leon had seen him before. The young African-American beat cop had been pointed out to him as sharp, on the fast track to detective, Marvin, Marvin Branagh… "I'm Kennedy. What happened here?" Leon asked, his hand still on Branagh's shoulder. A sickly heat radiated through the officer's ragged shirt. "About two months ago," Branagh rasped, "the cannibal murders… the S.T.A.R.S. found zombies out at this mansion in the woods…"
      He coughed weakly, and Leon saw a small bubble of blood form at the corner of his mouth. Leon started to tell him to be still, to rest, but Branagh's faraway gaze had fixed on his own; the cop seemed determined to tell the story, whatever it was costing him.
      "Chris and the others discovered that Umbrella
      was behind the whole thing… risked their lives, and
      no one believed them… then this."
      Chris… Chris Redfield, Claire's brother.
 
      Leon hadn't made the connection before, although he'd known something about the trouble with the
      S.T.A.R.S. He'd only heard bits and pieces of the story – the suspension of the Special Tactics and Rescue Squad after their alleged mishandling of the murder cases had been the reason the RPD'd been hiring new cops. He'd even read the names of the infamous S.T.A.R.S. members in some local paper, listed along with some fairly impressive career records…
      … and Umbrella runs this town. Some kind of a chemical leak, something that they tried to cover up by getting rid of the S.T.A.R.S…
      All of this went through his mind in a split-second; then Branagh coughed again, the sound even weaker than before. "Hang in there," Leon said, and quickly looked around them for something to use to stop the bleed– ing, inwardly kicking himself for not having done it already. A locker next to Branagh was partly open; a crumpled T-shirt lay at the bottom. Leon scooped it up and folded it haphazardly, pressing it against Branagh's stomach. The cop placed his own bloody hand over the makeshift bandage, closing his eyes as he spoke again in a wheezing gasp.
      "Don't… worry about me. There are… you have to try and rescue the survivors…"
      The resignation in Branagh's voice was horribly plain. Leon shook his head, wanting to deny the truth, wanting to do something to ease Branagh's pain, but the wounded cop was dying, and there was no one to call for help.
      Not fair, it's not fair… "Go," Branagh breathed, his eyes still closed. Branagh was right, there was nothing else Leon could do, but he didn't, couldn't move for a mo– ment – until Branagh raised his weapon again, point– ing it at him with a sudden burst of energy that strengthened his voice to a rough shout. "Just go!" Branagh commanded, and Leon stood up, wondering if he would be as selfless in the same situation, working to convince himself that Branagh would make it somehow. "I'll be back," Leon said firmly, but Branagh's arm was already drooping, his head settling against his heaving chest.
      Rescue the survivors.
      Leon backed toward the door, swallowing heavily and struggling to accept the change in plan that could very well kill him, but that he couldn't walk away from. Official or no, he was a cop. If there were other survivors, it was his moral and civic duty to try and help them. There was a weapons store in the basement, near the parking garage. Leon opened the door and stepped back into the lobby, praying that the lockers would be well stocked – and that there would be somebody left for him to help.

      From the burning rooftop, Claire moved through a snaking hallway littered with bro– ken glass and past a very dead cop, a bloody testament to her fears about the station's safety. She quickly stepped over the body and moved on, her nervous tension growing. A cool breeze ruffled through the shattered windows that lined the hall, making the darkness alive; there were shiny black feathers stuck in the streaks of blood that painted the floorboards, and their soft, wavering dance had her jerking the semiautomatic toward every shadow. She passed a door that she thought led back outside to a set of external stairs, but she kept going, taking a right toward the center of the building. The way the helicopter had buried itself in the rooftop was gnaw-ing at her, inspiring visions of the old station going up in flames.
      From the look of things, maybe that's not such a bad idea…
      Dead bodies and bloody handprints on the walls; Claire wasn't happy about the idea of touring the station. Still, death by fire didn't carry much appeal either, she needed to see how bad it was before she went looking for Leon. The corridor dead-ended at a door that felt cool to the touch. Mentally crossing her fingers, Claire opened it and stumbled back as a wave of acrid smoke washed over her, the smell of burnt metal and wood thick in the heated air. She dropped to a crouch and edged forward again, peering down the hall that stretched off to her right. The hall turned right again maybe thirty feet down, and although she couldn't see the fire proper, bright, fiery light was reflected off the gray paneled walls at the comer. The popping crackle of the unseen flames was magnified in the tight corridor, the sound as mindlessly hungry as the moans of the zombies down in the courtyard.
      Well, shit. What now?
      There was another door diagonally across from where she crouched, only a few steps away; Claire took a deep breath and moved, walking low to stay beneath the thickening blanket of smoke, hoping she could find a fire extinguisher and that a fire extin-guisher would be enough to put out whatever blaze the crashed 'copter had created. The door opened into an empty waiting room, a couple of green vinyl couches and a rounded counter– desk, with another door across from the one she'd entered by. The small room seemed untouched, as sterile and quietly unassuming as she might have expected – and unlike just about everywhere else she'd been tonight, there was no lurking disaster in the mild shadows thrown by the overhead fluores– cents, no stench of rot or shuffling zombie.
      And no fire extinguisher…
      Not in plain sight, anyway. She closed the door on the smoky corridor and stepped toward the desk, lifting the entrance flap with the barrel of the gun. There was an old manual typewriter on the counter and next to that, a telephone. Claire grabbed for it, hoping against hope, but heard only dead air through the receiver. Sighing, she dropped it and ducked down to check out the shelves beneath the counter. A phone book, a few stacks of papers and then, half-hidden by a woman's purse on the bottom shelf, was the familiar red shape she'd been hoping to find, coated with a thin layer of dust.
      "There you are," she murmured, and paused just long enough to stick the nine-millimeter into her vest before hefting the heavy cylinder. She'd never used one before, but it looked simple enough – a metal handle with a locking pin, a black rubber nozzle hooked to the side. It was only a couple of feet long, but it weighed a good forty or fifty pounds; she figured that meant it was full. Armed with the extinguisher, Claire stepped back to the door and started to take short, sharp breaths, filling her lungs. It made her feel light-headed, but the hyperventilation would allow her to hold her breath longer. She didn't want to keel over from smoke inhalation before she'd had a chance to put it out. A final deep breath and she opened the door, crouching her way back into the now noticeably hotter corridor. The haze of smoke had gotten thicker too, extending down from the ceiling in a dark and choking fog at least four feet deep.
      Keep low, breathe shallow and watch your step…
      She turned the corner and felt a bizarre mix of relief and sorrow at the sight of the burning wreckage right in front of her. She bobbed her head and took a small breath through the fabric of her vest, feeling her skin flush and tighten from the heat. The fire wasn't as bad as she'd feared, more smoke than substance and not much taller or bigger than she was; the flames that licked up the wall in orange-yellow fingers seemed to be having trouble catching, stopped by the heavy wood of a half-smashed door. It was the nose of the helicopter that drew her attention, the blackened shell of the smoldering cockpit and the blackened husk of the pilot still strapped to the seat, the melted mouth frozen in a yawning, silent scream.