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Bonus Chapter
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*****
The fire roared to life, consuming the evidence of his science. The smell of burning plastic and organic matter filled the alley, masking the scent of the Virus.
Atlas watched it burn for a moment, his face illuminated by the flames. He felt nothing for the dead rats or the fish. They were data points.
But the survivors... that was different.
He got back in the car and drove to the Raccoon City Animal Shelter.
It was a small, brick building near the park. It was closed for the night, dark and silent.
Atlas parked in front of the gate. He opened the trunk.
The dog—the scruffy terrier—looked up at him and wagged its tail. The cat meowed softly from its carrier. The hamster was running on its wheel, oblivious to the apocalypse.
Atlas lifted the cages out, one by one, placing them gently on the concrete step under the shelter's awning where they would be dry.
He opened a bag of high-quality kibble and poured a generous mound into the dog's bowl. He gave the cat a tin of tuna. He made sure every animal had food and water.
Then, he took the envelope from his pocket. He pulled out a stack of cash—$1,000 in twenties. He tucked it securely under the dog's collar, wrapping it in a plastic bag to keep it dry, along with a note: "Please take care of them.
Donation included."
He stood up and looked at them.
The dog stopped eating and looked up. Its big, brown eyes locked onto Atlas. It whined, taking a step toward him, straining against the leash Atlas had tied to the gate. It didn't want the food; it wanted the man who had saved it from the cage.
Atlas felt a knot form in his throat. A heavy, leaden weight that settled in his chest.
He wasn't a sentimental fool. He was a soldier. He was a killer. But looking at those innocent eyes, knowing what was coming... it hurt.
"Don't look at me like that," Atlas whispered, his voice rough.
He knew the math.
Raccoon City had a population of roughly 130,000 people.
When the infection hit critical mass, 90% of them would die in the first wave. They would be eaten in their homes, in their cars, in the streets.
Of the survivors, most would die when the thermobaric missile hit.
"You're dead," Atlas said softly to the dog. "You're all dead. Even if the shelter takes you in... you have a few days."
He looked up at the sky.
If this world followed the Game Lore, this was just the beginning. The T-Virus would spread. The C-Virus would burn China. The Las Plagas would consume Spain.
And if movie lore was the future.
"7.1 billion people," Atlas murmured. "How many will be left? 1%? Less?"
Innocent souls lost in rivers of blood, all because Oswell Spencer wanted to become a God. All because James Marcus wanted revenge. All because some Humans wanted to control evolution.
The joy of his earlier discovery—the relief of being able to kiss and love—evaporated. It was replaced by a hollow, aching coldness.
He reached down and patted the dog's head. He scratched the cat behind the ears.
"May you rise beyond mortal grasp," Atlas spoke, his tone heavy and solemn, reciting a prayer he didn't really believe in before. "Ascending to a heaven forever out of reach..."
He wasn't a religious man. He had been raised by Christian parents, but the desert of Afghanistan had burned that faith out of him.
He had seen young men blow themselves up for Allah. He had seen good men die for oil. He had learned that if there was a God, He was either absent or cruel.
But standing here, in this place at the edge of the end of the world, it was easy to want to believe. It was easy to hope that there was somewhere else for these innocents to go when the fire came.
"Goodbye," Atlas whispered.
He turned away abruptly. He couldn't look back.
He got into the car, slammed the door, and drove off, leaving the small menagerie of survivors alone in the dark.
---
Atlas drove aimlessly for thirty minutes.
He passed the hospital, where the lights were blazing in the ER entrance, but the doors were guarded by private security.
He passed the police station, which looked like a fortress under siege.
He didn't want to go back to the hotel. The suite was too quiet. The luxury felt suffocating. He needed noise. He needed a drink. He needed to be around something that wasn't a monster or a victim.
He saw a neon sign flickering down a side street.
["Strips & Sips"]
[Gentlemen's Club]
[OPEN]
It was a garish, pink and blue sign, buzzing with a faulty transformer.
Atlas parked the Expedition in the empty lot. There wasn't a single other car.
"Perfect," he muttered.
​He stalked the streets, too wired to sleep, too evolved to rest. The silence grated on him. He wanted interaction, but the city had shut down, retreating into a slumber that felt ancient.
​It was like walking through a museum exhibit of the Dark Ages.
It felt primitive. It reminded him of history books describing the old times—simple lives where people rose with the dawn and hid under their covers the moment the light faded.
'Perhaps ​Insomnia,' he realized, 'was a double-edged sword.' With his evolved undead physiology, the need for sleep had diminished, leaving him with hours of solitude that stretched out like a desert. Humans are social animals just like anyone. He craved interaction, noise, life—but this place was a ghost town. The nightlife here wasn't just quiet; it was extinct. It felt archaic, a throwback to an era where humanity lived and died by the rising of the sun.
Perhaps not being able to sleep wasn't that good.
​"It feels like a rehearsal," he muttered to himself, looking up at the artificial glow of the streetlamps.
​"I better get used to this," he whispered, kicking a pebble into the gloom.
​He looked at the electric lights humming overhead—the only things anchoring him to the modern era. Without them, he could have been anywhere. Or anywhen.
​His mind drifted to the worlds on his itinerary: Game of Thrones. The Witcher. Castlevania. Attack on Titan. Dragon Age.
​In those realms, there was no nightlife. There were no clubs, no late-night diners, no neon signs. No 24-hour convenience stores . There was only the setting sun and the terror that followed it. In the world of Goblin Slayer or Akame ga Kill!, you didn't go out at night to socialize. You barred the door and prayed the fire didn't go out.
​Here, the darkness was just boring. There, the darkness was alive.
​"Enjoy the boredom, Atlas," he told himself grimly.
He walked to the entrance. Usually, a place like this on a Saturday night would have a bouncer the size of a fridge checking IDs and a line of rowdy college kids or tired businessmen. Tonight, the door was unguarded.
He pushed it open.
The interior was what you'd expect from a mid-tier strip club. Red velvet walls, brass rails, low tables with sticky surfaces, and the smell of cheap perfume masking the scent of stale beer and desperation.
But it was empty.
The main stage was dark. The pole stood lonely in the spotlight. There were no dancers. No servers. No customers.
Just the music—a slow, sultry jazz track playing over the PA system—and one man standing behind the bar.
He was an older Black man, likely in his early sixties, with close-cropped grey hair and a face that looked like it had been carved out of granite. He wore a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms that were still thick with muscle despite his age. He was polishing a glass with a rag, his movements slow and methodical.
Atlas walked across the empty dance floor, his boots echoing on the hardwood.
"It seems the night doesn't suit Raccoon City anymore," Atlas announced, his voice carrying in the empty room.
The bartender looked up. He didn't smile, but he didn't scowl either. He had the eyes of a man who had seen everything and was surprised by nothing.
"You must be new here, son," the bartender said, his voice a deep, gravelly baritone. "Walking around at this time of night. Most folks have locked their doors and loaded their shotguns."
Atlas reached the bar and sat on a stool.
"I'm just passing through," Atlas said. "And I have insomnia. Whiskey. Neat. Make it a double."
The bartender nodded. He grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniel's and poured a generous measure into a tumbler. He slid it across the mahogany counter.
"Tyrone," the bartender introduced himself.
"Atlas," he replied, taking the glass.
He took a sip. The burn was good. It grounded him.
"So, old man," Atlas asked, leaning his elbows on the bar. "Aren't you afraid someone will rob you in this time and place? You're alone here. No security. No bouncers."
Tyrone chuckled—a dry, rasping sound.
"Well, what can I do?" Tyrone shrugged, picking up another glass to polish. "My workers aren't leaving their homes. My girls called in sick two days ago. They're afraid of the ghosts and the diseases appearing around the city."
He looked around the empty club.
"It feels like a dead city at night. Even the mornings aren't good. People are afraid. With the deaths in the mountains and the sudden increase in skin problems at the hospitals... folks are whispering about a plague."
Atlas nodded slowly. The "Skin Problems."
Rosacea. Eczema. Acne. The symptoms of trace amounts of T-Virus in the water supply. It wasn't enough to turn them into zombies yet—the viral load was too low—but it was enough to make their hair fall out, their skin itch, their tempers fray. The city was physically rotting before it died.
"As for the goons," Tyrone continued, his expression hardening. "Let them try."
His hand moved under the bar. It wasn't a frantic grab; it was a practiced, fluid motion.
CLACK.
He placed a Benelli M4 Super 90 shotgun on the counter. Beside it, he laid a Glock 17.
"I'll teach them some life lessons with these," Tyrone said calmly, tapping the shotgun receiver.
Atlas raised an eyebrow. He looked at the weapons. They were clean, well-oiled, and the safety was off on the shotgun.
"Nice," Atlas nodded appreciatively. "Benelli M4. Gas-operated. Semi-automatic. That's military hardware, Tyrone. Not exactly standard issue for a bartender."
"I have my history," Tyrone said, putting the guns back under the counter with the same casual motion. "So, I guess business isn't going that well for you either, seeing as you're drinking alone in a ghost town."
"I'm surviving," Atlas said. "Pour me another."
Tyrone poured.
"You handle yourself like someone who knows the difference between a gun and a toy," Tyrone observed, eyeing Atlas's posture.
"Shoulders back. Eyes on the weapons. Hands free." He poured himself a small glass of whiskey.
"Marine Corps?" Tyrone asked.
"Army," Atlas corrected. "Rangers. Deployment in the sandbox."
"Ah," Tyrone nodded, raising his glass in a silent toast. "Semper Fi. I was in 'Nam. '68. Tet Offensive."
"The jungle," Atlas said. "Must have been hell."
"It was hot," Tyrone said simply. "And loud. And wet. You never got dry. Your boots rotted off your feet."
"Sand isn't much better," Atlas countered. "It gets in everything. Your food. Your gun. Your eyes. And the heat... it's a dry heat, they say. Like an oven."
They sat in silence for a moment, two soldiers from two different wars, sharing the quiet understanding of men who had seen the elephant.
As the drinks go down and the chatter goes up, the evening becomes more lively!
*****
So with the talk with Tyrone we are done with setup with 1.5 volume and you won't be seeing this information and setup again.