So first things first, the higher-ups know about Atlas; in fact, since the whole breakout began, they have been watching live. But what the Red Queen let them see is not the complete picture. They know he's thinking, but they don't know he laughs, and his whole exploration in the sewers wasn't seen by them, only by the Red Queen. The last frame they saw was him killing the Licker, not taking or even kissing Alice.. It was In the last chapter, I thought I didn't need to state it directly. She is an AI, so her programming is to follow commands. How she does this, or her obsession with Atlas, is all on her.
*****
The Arklay Mountains – Dense Forest Perimeter.
Time: 05:25 AM.
The forest was a blur of green and brown, smeared into streaks of color by the velocity of the predator moving through it.
Atlas ran.
He didn't run like a man. He ran like a vehicle. His high agility not needing oxygen and infinite stamina allowed him to traverse the uneven terrain of the Arklay Mountains at speeds pushing eighty kilometers per hour. He vaulted over fallen logs without breaking stride, his boots barely touching the moss before propelling him forward again.
The air was crisp, filled with the scent of pine needles and damp earth. It was a refreshing change from the stale, recycled air of the Hive and the chemical stench of the train.
On his back, the black tactical bag bounced rhythmically, holding a piece of the future of the world—the T-Virus and the Anti-Virus—securely inside Despite his movement, the vials of T-Virus and Anti-virus remained unaffected, as the briefcase was designed with thses in consideration.
'Raccoon City is ten kilometers south,' Atlas calculated, his mind mapping the terrain. 'If I maintain this pace, I'll be in the suburbs before the sun fully breaches the horizon.'
He felt invincible. The lingering taste of Alice was still on his lips, a sweet reminder of his conquest. The power of evolution hummed in his veins.
But the forest was not empty.
Atlas's enhanced ears twitched.
Click. Rustle. Heartbeat.
Not the shuffling of the undead. This was the disciplined stillness of the living.
'Ambush,' Atlas realized, skidding to a halt.
He stopped in the center of a small clearing, surrounded by towering pines. The early morning mist clung to the ground, swirling around his boots.
"Hold!"
The command barked out from the treeline.
Instantly, the forest erupted with the red glint of laser sights. One, two, ten... fifteen red dots appeared on Atlas's chest.
From the shadows, a squad of heavily armed men emerged. They wore grey urban camouflage, tactical vests, and gas masks. The insignia on their shoulders identified them immediately: U.B.C.S. (Umbrella Biohazard Countermeasure Service).
These weren't police officers or security guards.
These were mercenaries. Convicts, war criminals, and ex-special forces hired by Umbrella to clean up their messes.
They formed a perfect oval perimeter, their SIG 556 assault rifles raised and locked onto the target.
The Squad Leader, a burly man with a scar running beneath his gas mask, stepped forward. He didn't look afraid. He looked at Atlas like a specimen to be bagged.
"Target confirmed," the Leader spoke into his comms, his voice amplified. "Subject A-1 located."
He leveled his rifle at Atlas's head.
"Stop now," the Leader commanded, his finger tightening on the trigger. "Drop the bag and kneel on the ground with your hands behind your head. If you resist, I will shoot y—"
The sentence was never finished.
Atlas didn't move. He translated.
One second, he was standing ten meters away. The next second, the air displaced with a violent CRACK, like a whip breaking the air apart.
Atlas appeared directly in front of the Leader.
"I don't like guns pointed at me."
SNKIT!
Atlas's right hand moved in a lazy, horizontal arc. The silver-bone claws extended mid-swing, creating a fan of white death.
The Leader's eyes went wide behind his mask. He tried to pull the trigger. His brain sent the signal to his finger.
But his head was no longer attached to his body.
Thump.
The helmeted head slid off the neck, spinning through the air before landing in the dirt. A fountain of bright, arterial red blood sprayed into the mist, coating Atlas's grey uniform.
The body stood there for a second, the finger twitching on the trigger, firing a burst of bullets into the ground, before collapsing.
Silence reigned for exactly one heartbeat.
Then, hell broke loose.
"CONTACT! CONTACT!"
"OPEN FIRE!"
The clearing exploded with noise. Fourteen SIG 556 rifles opened up on full auto. The muzzle flashes lit up the dawn like strobe lights.
Hundreds of rounds tore through the space where Atlas was standing.
But he wasn't there.
Atlas was gone.
He was a grey ghost, a blur of motion that defied physiology. He didn't run away; he ran into them.
'Fighting humans is so different from zombies,' Atlas mused, time seeming to slow down as his Reaction Speed kicked in.
Zombies were durable. You could shoot them in the chest, and they wouldn't flinch. They felt no pain. They had no fear. You had to destroy the brain or sever the spine.
Humans?
Humans were soft. Humans were fragile. And most importantly... humans knew fear.
Atlas slid under a hail of bullets, moving so low his chest scraped the grass. He popped up inside the guard of the soldier on the left flank.
"Too slow," Atlas whispered.
He thrust his claws forward.
SQUELCH.
The blades punched through the ceramic plate carrier, through the ribs, and out the soldier's back. The mercenary screamed—a high, wet sound of absolute agony.
Atlas ripped his claws out sideways. The soldier collapsed, clutching his ruined chest, gargling blood.
"Check your fire! Check your fire! He's inside the perimeter!"
The mercenaries panicked. They couldn't shoot without hitting their own men.
Atlas capitalized on the confusion. He was dancing now. The Grim Reaper of the Arklay Mountains.
He grabbed a mercenary by the neck with his left hand, lifting the 200-pound man into the air as a human shield. Bullets meant for Atlas tore into the mercenary's legs and vest.
"Thanks for the cover," Atlas quipped.
He threw the corpse at two other soldiers, knocking them to the ground in a tangle of limbs.
Atlas leaped. He grabbed a low-hanging tree branch, swung once to build momentum, and dropped onto a sniper positioned on a ridge.
CRUNCH.
He landed with both feet on the man's shoulders. The sound of the collarbones shattering was sickeningly loud. The sniper crumpled instantly.
"Monster!"
The scream tore from the soldier's throat, a jagged sound of pure terror that signaled the total collapse of his discipline. In a frenzy of panic, he ripped a high-explosive grenade from his tactical vest.
"Die, you freak!"
He yanked the pin.
Atlas didn't flinch. He didn't panic. He just smiled—a cold, predatory baring of teeth.
The distance between them vanished. Atlas moved with the speed of a striking viper, blurring the air. Before the soldier's arm could even cock back to throw, Atlas's claw flashed in a surgical arc.
Shing.
The soldier's hand, fingers still white-knuckled around the spoon of the live grenade, was severed cleanly at the wrist. It slapped wetly onto the forest ground, landing directly between the soldier's boots.
The man stared down, his brain struggling to process the bleeding stump at the end of his arm and the death sitting at his feet.
"Oh shi—"
BOOM.
The detonation was a thunderclap in the confined space. The soldier was dead instantly, reduced to a fine red mist and wet chunks.
The concussive force was absolute. Even Atlas, for all his power, could not ignore physics. Instinct took over; he dropped to a crouch instantly, curling his massive frame inward and shielding his head with his forearms just as the shockwave slammed into him.
Dust, smoke, and the metallic tang of blood filled the air.
For a moment, there was silence. Then, a shadow rose from the haze.
Atlas stood up. His arms were a ruin—shredded by the blast, with jagged pieces of hot shrapnel embedded deep into the muscle, stopped only by the incredible density of his hand bones. Thick silver-red blood dripped freely onto the dry ground.
But before the survivors could even draw a breath of relief, the nightmare truly began.
With a sickening, wet squelch, the shrapnel began to move. The jagged metal shards were pushed out of his flesh, rejected by his biology, clattering onto the floor one by one.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
Right before their eyes, the torn muscle fibers wove themselves back together like living snakes. The smaller wounds healed naturally, with the skin stitching itself closed, gradually sealing the wounds and even not leaving so much as a scar. Red steam rose from his arms as the slow regeneration began.
The only men were left standing. They scrambled backward, boots slipping on the gore, their rifles rattling in trembling hands.
They were veterans of the bio-war. They had slaughtered Hunters in the sewers. They had put down Animal B.O.W in the labs. They knew how to kill monsters.
But this? This was different.
Hunters didn't use tactics. Hunters didn't understand irony.
This thing stood amidst the carnage, fully healed, and looked at them with intelligent eyes. And worst of all... it was laughing.
"Reloading!" one screamed, fumbling with a magazine.
"Bad mistake," Atlas purred, appearing behind him.
He didn't use his claws this time. He grabbed the soldier's head with both hands and twisted.
SNAP.
The body went limp.
The last two broke and ran. They dropped their guns and sprinted into the forest, terror overriding their training.
Atlas watched them go for a second, calculating the distance.
"I can't let you report back just yet," he murmured.
He picked up a combat knife dropped by one of the dead men. He weighed it in his hand.
He threw it.
The knife flew fifty meters, end over end, and buried itself in the back of the running soldier's skull. He dropped mid-stride.
The final man tripped over a root, scrambling on his hands and knees.
Atlas walked up to him casually, stepping over the corpses of his squad. The forest was silent again, save for the heavy breathing of the last survivor.
The mercenary rolled over, holding up his hands. "Please... I have a family..."
Atlas tilted his head, looking down at the man. His grey eyes were devoid of empathy.
"So did the people in the Hive, and everyone in this city my man." Atlas said softly. "But you work for Umbrella. You knew the risks dude."
The man reached for his sidearm.
Atlas stomped.
His boot crushed the man's chest cavity, collapsing the ribcage into the heart. The soldier gasped once, blood bubbling from his lips, and died.
Atlas stood alone in the clearing. The mist was now tinged pink.
He adjusted the backpack straps. He looked at the carnage—fifteen highly trained killers, wiped out and mummified in under two minutes.
He felt... great.
The forest was silent, save for the dripping of blood from the pine needles and the distant cawing of crows sensing a feast.
Atlas stood amidst the ruin of the U.B.C.S. squad. He flexed his hands, watching the bigger wounds slowly heal and silver-white bone claws slowly retract into his knuckles with a soft, wet snakt. The skin sealed over the exit points instantly, leaving no scar, only smooth, pale perfection gleaming under the first golden rays of the rising sun.
He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the cold mountain air. It smelled of pine, damp earth, and the distinct, metallic iron rust..
'Messy,' Atlas critiqued, looking down at his own attire.
His white lab coat and security uniform was shredded, hanging off his frame in bloody tatters. He looked like a feral animal, not a sentient being. If he walked into Raccoon City looking like this, he wouldn't even make it to the suburbs before the R.P.D. or the National Guard opened fire.
*****
So, the next thing is, from now on, I will start with volume 1.5. The novel will be separated into several arcs for everyone, following many chapters for Atlas and his experiences and experiments, then shifting to Umbrella, the US Government, the rival companies, the mercenaries, the G-virus, the little girl, and many more, with some normal people before we officially begin volume 2 with Zombie everywhere.