lurching jolt.
Heart pounding and stomach in knots, Leon
opened the window and craned his neck, scanning the shadows for the animal that had darted across the
highway. He hadn't hit it, but it had been close. Some
kind of a dog, he didn't get a clear look - a big one,
anyway, a shepherd or maybe an oversized Dober-
man, but it had looked wrong somehow. He'd only
seen it for a split-second, a flash of glowing red eyes
and lean, wolfish body. And there was something else,
it had seemed kind of...
... slimy? No, trick of the light, or you were just so
shit-scared that you saw it wrong. You're okay and you
didn't hit it, that's the important thing.
"Jesus," he said again, softer this time, feeling both relieved and suddenly quite angry as the adrenaline
leaked out of his system. People who let their dogs run
loose were idiots - claiming they wanted their pets to
be free and then acting surprised when Fido got
squashed by a car.
The Jeep had come to a stop just a few feet away
from a road sign that read RACCOON CITY 10; he
could just make out the lettering in the growing
shadows. Leon glanced at his watch; he still had
almost half an hour to get to the station, plenty of
time - but for some reason, he simply sat for a
moment, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. Cool
pine-scented air breezed across his face; the deserted
stretch of road seeming almost unnaturally quiet - as
if the landscape was holding its breath, waiting. Now
that his heart had resumed a more normal pace, he
was surprised to find that he still felt unsettled, even
anxious.
The murders in Raccoon. Weren't a few of those
people killed by animal attack? Wild dogs, or some-
thing? Maybe that wasn't someone's pet dog at all.
A disturbing thought - and even more disturbing
was the sudden feeling he had that the dog was still
close by, maybe watching him from the darkness in
the trees.
Welcome to Raccoon City, Officer Kennedy. Watch
out for things that may be watching you. . .
"Don't be an asshole," Leon mumbled to himself, and felt a little better at the sound of his no-nonsense
adult tone of voice. He often wondered if he would
ever outgrow his imagination.
Daydreaming like a kid about catching bad guys,
then inventing killer dog-monsters lurking in the
woods - let's try to act our age, eh, Leon? You're a cop,
for God's sake, a grownup...
He started the engine and backed onto the road,
ignoring the strange sense of unease that had some-
how managed to take hold of him in spite of his
mind's chiding voice. He had a new job and a nice apartment in a nice little up-and-coming city; he was
competent, bright, and decent-looking; as long as he
kept his creativity glands in check, everything would
be fine.
"And I'm on my way," he said to himself, forcing a grin that felt out of place but suddenly necessary to
his peace of mind. He was on his way to Raccoon
City, to a promising new life - there was nothing to
be uneasy about, nothing at all...
Claire was exhausted, both physically and emotion-
ally, and the fact that her butt had been aching for the
last couple of hours wasn't helping matters much. The
thrum of the Harley's engine seemed to have settled
deep into her bones, a physical counterpoint to the
butterflies in her stomach - and of course, the worst
of it seemed to emanate from her extremely sore and
overheated ass. Plus, it was getting dark and like an
idiot she wasn't wearing her leathers; Chris would be
totally pissed.
He's going to yell his head off, and I won't even care.
God, Chris, please be there to scream at me for being
such an idiot. . .
The Harley buzzed along the dark road, the sound
of the engine echoing back at her from the sloping
hills and shadow-laden trees. She took the corners
carefully, very aware of how deserted the winding
highway was; if she took a spill, it could be a long time
before anyone happened by.
Like it would matter. Take a spill without your gear
on, they'll be scraping pieces of you off the asphalt with
a squeegee.
It was stupid, she knew it was stupid to have left in
such a godawful hurry that she couldn't be bothered
to suit up - but something had happened to Chris.
Hell, something may have happened to the entire city.
Over the past couple of weeks, the growing suspicion
that her brother was in trouble had become a cer-
tainty and the calls she'd made that morning had
cinched it for her.
Nobody home. Nobody home anywhere. Like Rac-
coon moved and forgot to leave a forwarding address.
It was definitely creepy, although she could give a
shit about Raccoon. What mattered was that Chris
was there, and if something bad had happened to
him. . .
She couldn't, wouldn't think that way. Chris was all
she had left. Their father had been killed on his
construction job when they were both still kids, and
when their mother had died in a car crash three years
ago, Chris had done his best to take on a parental role. Even though he was only a few years older, he'd
helped her pick a college, find a decent therapist - he
even sent her a little money each month beyond what
the insurance policies paid out, what he called "walk-
ing around cash." And on top of all that, he called her
every couple of weeks like clockwork.
Except he hadn't called at all in the last month and
a half, and hadn't returned any of her calls. She'd tried to convince herself that she was silly to worry,
maybe he'd finally met a girl, or something had turned
up on the S.T.A.R.S. suspension thing, whatever that
was all about. But after three unanswered letters and
days of waiting for the phone to ring, she'd finally put
in a call to the RPD that very afternoon, hoping
against hope that someone there might know what
was going on. She'd gotten a busy signal.
Sitting in her dorm room, listening to that soulless
mechanical bleat, she'd started to worry for real. Even
a small city like Raccoon had a voice-mail answering
system set up to field calls. The rational part of her
mind told her not to panic, that a downed line was
nothing to get freaky about, but already, her emo-
tional self was screaming foul. She'd gone through her
address book with trembling hands, dialing the few
numbers she had for friends of his, people or places
he'd told her to call if there was ever an emergency
and he wasn't at home - Barry Burton, Emmy's Din-
er, some cop she'd never met named David Ford. She
even tried Billy Rabbitson's number, although Chris
had told her that he'd disappeared a few months
earlier. And with the exception of an overloaded
answering machine at David Ford's house, she'd
gotten nothing but busy signals.
By the time she'd hung up, the worry had trans-
formed into something close to panic. The trip to
Raccoon City was only about six-and-a-half hours
from the university. Claire's roommate had borrowed
her riding gear to go out with her new biker boyfriend,
but Claire had an extra helmet - and with that feeling
that was not quite panic spinning through her fright-
ened thoughts, she had simply grabbed the helmet
and gone.
Stupid, maybe. Impulsive, definitely. And if Chris is
okay, we can laugh about how ridiculously paranoid I
am 'til the cows come home. But until I find out what's
going on, I won't know a moment's peace.
The last of the day's light was draining from the
strip of cloudless sky above, although a waxing, nearly
full moon and the Softail's headlight gave her enough
light to see by - more than enough to see the small
sign ahead on her left: RACCOON CITY 10.
Telling herself that Chris was fine, that if anything
weird had happened in Raccoon, somebody would
have checked it out by now, Claire forced her concen-
tration back to handling the heavy bike. It would be
full dark soon, but she'd be in Raccoon before it was
too dark to ride safely.
Whether or not Raccoon City would be safe, she'd
find out soon enough.
THREE
LEON REACHED THE OUTSKIRTS OF TOWN
with twenty minutes to spare, but decided that a hot
dinner was going to have to wait. From his previous
visits to the station, he knew that there were a couple
of vending machines he could hit up for something to
tide him over. The thought of stale candy and peanuts
didn't sit well on his growling stomach, but it was his
own damned fault for not taking New York traffic into
account.
The drive into the city proper did a lot to soothe his
still rattled nerves; he passed the few small farms that
lay east of town, the fairgrounds and storage sheds,
and finally the truck stop that marked the separation
of rural Raccoon from urban. Something about know-
ing that he was going to be patrolling those back roads
before long, keeping them safe, gave him a surprising
sense of well-being and not a little pride. The early
autumn air from the open window was pleasantly
brisk, and the rising moon bathed everything he saw
in a silvery glow. He wasn't going to be late after all;
within the hour, he'd officially become one of Rac-
coon's finest.
As Leon turned the Jeep down Bybee, heading for
one of the main north-south streets that would take
him to the RPD building, he got his first hint that
something was very wrong. In the first few blocks, he
was mildly surprised; by the fifth, he found himself
slipping toward a state of shock. It wasn't just strange,
it was ... well, it was impossible.
Bybee was the first real city street, coming from the
east, where buildings outnumbered empty lots. There
were several espresso bars and cheap diners, as well as
a bargain movie theater that never seemed to run
anything but horror movies and sexy comedies - and
was therefore the most popular hangout for the youth
of Raccoon. There were even a few generically hip
taverns that served microbrew and hot rum drinks for
the winter college-student ski crowd. At quarter to
nine on a Saturday night, Bybee should have been
teeming with life.
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
