So with this chapter we are done with this volume.
Get those stones going boys and tomboys, we need to get those numbers up!
If you want to discuss the story or just meme about join my discord server:
*****
"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!
Tyrone looked at the empty bottles of beer sitting on the back counter, then at the whiskey bottle he was sharing with Atlas.
"You sure you want to keep drinking, son?" Tyrone asked, eyeing the bottle. "You don't want to get me drunk and then rob the place, do you?"
"Hahaha," Atlas laughed, the sound genuine and loud in the empty room. "Come on, old man. Relax. I'm not going to rob you."
He leaned in, flashing a grin.
"If I wanted to rob you, Tyrone, even your experienced hands wouldn't be able to stop me."
Tyrone stared at him. He looked at Atlas's frame—the unnatural width of the shoulders, the density of the muscle under the jacket. He saw the confidence. It wasn't arrogance; it was fact.
He laughed. He couldn't help it.
He glanced at Atlas, sizing him up in a heartbeat. The kid was a specimen, no doubt—broad shoulders, dense muscle, a frame built for violence. But flesh was still flesh.
Can a man out-flex a claymore? Can he catch shrapnel with his abs?
The answer was a hard no.
The soldier relaxed, his guard down. To him, Atlas was just a well-dressed, well-behaved civilian. He didn't mind the bravado. He just knew it wouldn't survive first contact with shrapnel.
Tyrone laughed, shaking his head.
"Sure, sure," Tyrone conceded. "You're a big lad. But as they say, Rule Number One: 'A dealer who dips into his own stash won't last long. Don't get high on your own supply — it's bad for business.'"
He took a sip of his own drink.
"True to all," Atlas replied, slapping a hundred-dollar bill onto the counter. "But Rule of the Tonight: Everything's on me. Drink like an addict — you make money, you have fun. Everybody wins."
Tyrone looked at the bill. He looked at the empty club. He looked at the young man who seemed to be carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.
"Alright," Tyrone smiled, grabbing the bottle. "One night only. Let's see if you can keep up with a Leatherneck."
---
Location: Downtown Raccoon City – "Strips & Sips".
Time: 01:45 AM (Sunday Morning).
Another bottle of Jack Daniel's was half empty. Or half full, depending on how much of a pessimist the apocalypse had made you.
The jazz on the jukebox had shifted to a slow, smoky blues track—B.B. King plucking strings that wept for a woman who was never coming back.
Atlas and Tyrone sat at the bar, the wooden counter between them acting not as a barrier, but as a bridge between generations. The initial guardedness was gone, dissolved by the amber liquid and the shared language of men who had worn boots for a living.
"So there I was," Tyrone said, leaning back against the liquor shelf, a grin cracking his granite face. "Da Nang, '69. Monsoon season. The rain was coming down sideways. I'm in a foxhole with this kid from Kentucky, and he's crying because his socks are wet. I tell him, 'Son, your socks are the least of your problems. The mosquitoes out here are big enough to carry off a water buffalo.'"
Atlas laughed, shaking his head. "We had the camel spiders in Kandahar. Ugly bastards. They'd run into your shadow to escape the sun. The first time I saw one, I emptied a whole magazine at the ground. My Sergeant made me dig latrines for a week for wasting ammo."
"Latrine duty," Tyrone groaned, pouring them both another shot. "The universal punishment. It doesn't matter if it's jungle rot or desert dust, the smell of burning shit is the same in every war."
"It's the smell of gun powder," Atlas quipped, raising his glass.
"It's the smell of a CO with a stick up his ass," Tyrone corrected, clinking his glass against Atlas's.
They drank.
For Atlas, the alcohol was a pleasant fiction. His Constant Regeneration and super-active metabolism burned the ethanol almost instantly. He couldn't get drunk—not really. He felt a phantom warmth, a placebo relaxation. He missed the buzz, the blurring of the edges, but he enjoyed the ritual.
He enjoyed the company more.
Tyrone was the kind of man the world was running out of. Solid. Uncomplaining. A man who built things with his hands and protected what was his.
"You know," Tyrone said, looking into his glass, his mood turning contemplative. "I bought this place ten years ago. Used my pension. Fixed the wiring myself. Sande these floors on my hands and knees."
"It's a nice place, Tyrone," Atlas said genuinely. "It's got soul."
"It had life," Tyrone sighed. "Before this... whatever this is. This sickness. This fear."
He looked at Atlas.
"You remind me of myself, back when I still thought I could punch the world into shape. You got that fire, son. But you also got that look. The look of a man running towards the fire, not away from it."
"Someone has to put it out," Atlas shrugged.
"Or burn with it," Tyrone warned gently. "I had a buddy. Big guy. Strong as an ox. Thought he was bulletproof. He didn't come home. It's usually the careful ones who make it to old age, Atlas."
"I'm not planning on dying," Atlas said. "I have too much to do."
"Don't we all," Tyrone muttered. He reached behind the bar and pulled out a framed photograph. He wiped a speck of dust off the glass with his thumb before setting it down in front of Atlas.
"That's why I'm still here. That's why I keep the lights on.
Atlas leaned in to look at the photo.
It wasn't a graduation picture. It was older, grainy, clearly taken in the early 90s.
It showed Tyrone, looking younger and thicker, standing next to a pre-teen girl—maybe twelve years old. She was in an awkward phase that Atlas recognized instantly. She had jet-black dyed hair that hung over one eye, dark purple lipstick, and a sullen, "I hate the world" expression that only a middle-schooler could master. But despite the goth makeup and the scowl, Tyrone had his arm around her, beaming with unconditional pride.
"My girl," Tyrone said, his voice swelling. "Rachel."
Atlas smiled at the image. "She looks... spirited."
"She was going through that phase," Tyrone laughed, a deep rumble. "Listened to nothing but The Cure and painted her room black. Told me I didn't understand her 'dark soul'."
Atlas chuckled. He glanced up at the permit hanging on the wall behind the bar, his eyes drifting over the text.
[ Liquor License - Proprietor: Tyrone Foley ]
Foley, Atlas noted absently. Common name.
His brain, usually a computer of connections and lore, was currently in "Low Power Mode." He saw the name "Rachel," and he saw the name "Foley," but the image in the photo—the sullen goth kid—didn't trigger any recognition.
She looked nothing like the blonde, buxom FBC agent from Resident Evil: Revelations.
To Atlas, this was just a random girl named Rachel Foley. The world was full of them. He didn't make the connection. He didn't want to make the connections. He was just enjoying the whiskey and the story.
"She grew out of it, though," Tyrone continued, tapping the frame. "Turned into a hell of a woman. Smart. Sharp."
"Where is she now?" Atlas asked. "College?"
"Finished college last year," Tyrone beamed. "She's in training now. Federal agent stuff. FBI, FBC, something like that. She's down at Quantico or wherever they send the recruits. Top of her class in marksmanship."
"A fed, huh?" Atlas raised an eyebrow. "From a goth kid to a G-Man. That's a hell of a pivot."
"I tried to tell her to be a doctor or a lawyer," Tyrone sighed, pouring himself another splash.
"I wanted her to have a life where she didn't have to carry a gun. But she's stubborn. Has her mother's fire. She wants to save the world."
"It's a noble goal," Atlas said softly.
"It's a dangerous one," Tyrone corrected. "But... a father worries. Especially with the news these days. I'm just glad she's out of state. Raccoon City ain't safe right now."
"She's better off away from here," Atlas agreed, staring into the amber liquid. "Trust me on that."
"What about you, Atlas?" Tyrone asked, breaking the silence. "You got people? A girl waiting for you?"
Atlas thought of the empty hotel room. He thought of the T-Virus hidden in the vent. He thought of the rabbits he had killed an hour ago.
"No," Atlas said. "No people. Not anymore. Not yet—"
"That's a heavy way to travel," Tyrone noted.
"It's faster," Atlas said defensively. "No baggage."
"No anchor," Tyrone countered. "A ship without an anchor drifts, son. And eventually, it hits the rocks. You need something to fight for. Not just something to fight against."
Atlas looked at the old Marine. The words hit deeper than the whiskey.
"I'm looking for an answer," Atlas admitted, the alcohol loosening his tongue just enough to be honest. "I want to know what the peak looks like. I want to know if a man can become... more."
"More what?"
"More than just meat for the grinder," Atlas whispered. "I want to see the view from the top of the mountain. Even if I have to climb over a pile of bodies to get there."
Tyrone studied him for a long moment. He didn't judge. He had seen that look in the eyes of young officers before. Ambition. Hunger. The belief that they could conquer death itself.
"Just remember," Tyrone said softly. "The air is thin at the top. And it's cold. You might get there and realize you miss the warmth of the valley."
Atlas smiled, a sad, knowing smile.
"I will take a coat of flesh and souls there," he said.
They laughed. It broke the tension.
"You're a strange kid, Atlas," Tyrone shook his head, pouring the last of the bottle. "But I like you. You respect the silence."
"And you pour a good drink, Tyrone."
They sat there for another two hour, talking about lighter things. Cars. The Knicks. The difference between a 1911 and a Beretta Tyrone preferred the stopping power of the .45, Atlas argued for the capacity of the 9mm.
It was a slice of normalcy. A bubble of time carved out of the catastrophe. A moment where Atlas wasn't the Apex, wasn't a zombie, Wasn't the guy who mistook reality for fiction just two days ago. He was just a guy having a drink with a good bartender.
Finally, Atlas looked at the clock on the wall. 03:30 AM.
"I should go," Atlas said, standing up. He felt steady, focused, energized.
"Yeah," Tyrone stood up, stretching his back. "I should lock up. Not that anyone's coming in."
Atlas reached into his pocket. He pulled out a thick wad of cash. He didn't count it. He just placed the entire stack—probably two thousand dollars—on the bar.
"For the drinks," Atlas said. "And the conversation."
Tyrone looked at the money. He frowned.
"Son, that's too much. The bottle was forty bucks."
"Consider it an investment," Atlas said, putting his hand over Tyrone's when the old man tried to push the money back. "The world is getting crazy, Tyrone. Prices are going up. You might need to buy supplies. Or ammo."
After uttering those words, he didn't look back. He stepped out into the night.