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*****
He knew the truth. These laws, these background checks, this desperate clinging to procedure—it was all about to evaporate.
These weapons would keep them alive for perhaps two more days. Maybe three. But against what was coming? They were just buying a louder way to die. And mostly, they would just leave a lot of well-armed corpses for the zombies to feed on. He watched them snatching up the revolvers and the hunting rifles.
The line outside Kendo's Gun Shop wrapped around the block, a coiled snake of desperate humanity baking under the late morning sun.
The normal middle class people stood shoulder to shoulder, united by a singular, suffocating dread.
A man near the front of the line, sweating profusely through his dress shirt, gripped a crumpled copy of the Raccoon City Times. His knuckles were white. He wasn't reading it; he was staring at it, as if hoping the words would change if he looked hard enough.
"TERROR IN RACCOON CITY! NEW VICTIMS FOUND!"
The headline screamed in bold, black ink, dominating the front page.
"The mutilated bodies of Dean Rush and Christopher Smith, both 19, were discovered early this morning on the west shore of Victory Lake. The teenagers, reported missing by their families on the 20th, were reportedly attempting to vigilante-search for other missing persons in the Victory Park area. Forensic analysis confirms they were killed by the same perpetrator responsible for the recent string of 'Wild Dog' attacks. Police are currently pursuing a serial killer theory..."
"A serial killer," a woman behind him whispered, her voice trembling. She was scratching her arm incessantly—a patch of angry, black rash visible just above her elbow.
"They keep saying it's a serial killer. But what kind of man tears people apart like that? Rush and Smith... it was a closed casket. My sister knows the mortician. She said there wasn't enough left to..."
She trailed off, unable to finish the thought.
The fear in the crowd was palpable. It was a physical weight, heavier than the humidity.
Inside the shop window, a small television set was broadcasting Mayor Michael Warren's emergency press conference. The volume was turned up, filtering through the glass to the street.
"...I want to assure the citizens of Raccoon City that the R.P.D. is doing everything in its power," the Mayor said. He looked polished, his suit expensive, but beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. He avoided the camera's lens.
"However, for your own safety, we are enforcing a strict 6:00 PM curfew. We appeal to the general public to respect the ban on nighttime travel. Stay indoors. Lock your doors."
He didn't mention the murders. He didn't mention the bodies found in the sewers. He just talked about "safety" and "curfews" like a parent scolding unruly children.
"Liar," a construction worker in the line spat, watching the screen. "He's packing his bags. I saw a movers' truck at City Hall this morning."
"It's not just the curfew," a college student chimed in, holding his phone up. "Have you checked the forums? People are trying to leave. My roommate tried to drive to Stoneville this morning to stay with his parents. He got turned back at the highway."
A murmur of panic rippled through the line.
"Turned back?"
"The National Guard," the student hissed, lowering his voice. "They have a blockade set up on Route 6. Concrete barriers. Men in black. They told him the city is under 'preventative quarantine' due to a chemical spill. Nobody gets out. Nobody gets in."
The realization hit the crowd like a cold wave. They weren't just being protected; they were being caged.
The anxiety was compounded by the physical state of the city itself. Raccoon City felt sick.
The water coming out of the taps this morning had a faint, metallic taste, leaving a slick residue in the sink. The air smelled wrong—a mixture of summer heat and something rotting rising from the storm drains.
"And the noises," an old woman muttered, clutching a rosary. "Has anyone else heard them? At night? Coming from the pipes?"
"Grinding," the man with the newspaper nodded. "Like machinery. And... Roars. Low, echoing screams from the manholes. I called the utility company, but no one picked up."
They stood there, trapped between the horror of the unknown and the paralysis of the bureaucracy. The "Skin Plague"—as the internet forums had dubbed it—was spreading.
Everywhere you looked, people were scratching. Rosacea. Hives. Patches of necrotic dry skin. The doctors at Raccoon General called it "stress-induced dermatitis" or "chemical allergies," but everyone knew stress didn't make your hair fall out in clumps.
Every instinct these people had was screaming at them to run, to flee, to escape. But the roads were blocked. The police were useless. The Mayor was a puppet.
So, they did the only thing Americans knew how to do when the world stopped making sense.
They came to buy guns.
"Next!" the seller's voice boomed from inside the shop, exhausted and frayed.
The line shuffled forward. They didn't want hunting rifles for sport. They wanted protection. They wanted 12-gauge stoppers. They wanted assurance that when the "Serial Killer" or the "Wild Dogs" or the "Maniacs" came scratching at their doors tonight, they wouldn't end up like Dean Rush and Christopher Smith.
They were innocent people standing on the precipice of extinction, clutching their wallets like talismans, praying that a box of 9mm ammunition would be enough to save them from the nightmare growing beneath their feet.
Atlas, for his part, had observed enough, so he… walked to the reinforced side door in the alleyway. He knocked a specific rhythm: knock-knock... pause... knock.
A slide bolt rattled. The heavy steel door creaked open just a crack.
Robert Kendo peered out. The legendary gunsmith looked like he had aged ten years in two days. He had dark circles under his eyes, grease on his face, and a Samurai Edge pistol holstered on his hip.
"We're closed for restock," Kendo grunted, his hand resting near his weapon.
"I'm not here for a restock, Robert," Atlas said smoothly. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a thick, manila envelope. "I'm here for the special order we discussed on the phone. The 'Safari' package."
Kendo blinked. He looked at the envelope, then at Atlas's face. He saw the grey eyes—calm, dangerous, and utterly lacking the panic that infected everyone else in the city.
"You're the guy who asked about the Magnum?" Kendo asked, lowering his guard slightly.
"And the explosive rounds," Atlas nodded. "I'm going hunting in the mountains. Big game."
Kendo sighed, unlatching the chain. "Come in. But make it quick. The police chief is breathing down my neck to arm the S.T.A.R.S. team with custom, and the civilians are panic-buying everything else."
Atlas stepped inside. The shop smelled of gun oil, cold steel, and stale coffee. It was a sanctuary of violence.
Kendo locked the door behind him and walked behind the counter. He pulled a heavy, locked hard-case from under the register.
"You have good timing," Kendo muttered, punching in the combination. "Another hour, and Chief Irons would have confiscated this for his personal collection."
He opened the case.
Lying on the foam padding was a masterpiece.
A Lightning Hawk .44 Magnum. Stainless steel finish, 6-inch barrel, custom wood grip. Beside it lay a Remington 870 Custom shotgun with a pistol grip and a folding stock, modified for close-quarters combat.
"The Hawk comes with speed loaders," Kendo explained, his voice taking on the professional pride of an artist. "I bored the cylinder myself. It'll take the high-pressure rounds without cracking. And the Remington... I choked the barrel. At ten feet, it won't spread. It'll just remove whatever is in front of it."
Atlas ran his hand over the Magnum. It felt cold and heavy. To his Strength, it felt like a toy, but he knew the damage it could do.
"And the ammo?" Atlas asked.
Kendo placed four boxes on the counter. "Fifty rounds of .44 hollow-point. Fifty rounds of explosive slugs for the shotgun. And I threw in a combat knife. You look like a guy who knows how to use it."
Atlas opened the envelope. Inside was $20,000 in cash that he had recently confiscated from another ATM
"Keep the change," Atlas said.
Kendo looked at the money. It was three times the price.
"Take care of yourself, kid," Kendo said quietly, pushing the case toward him. "Whatever you're hunting in those mountains... make sure you shoot it in the head. That seems to be the only thing that works these days."
Atlas nodded. He packed the weapons into a nondescript duffel bag.
"You too, Robert. Lock the doors."
Atlas walked out of the shop. As he stepped onto the sidewalk, shielding his eyes from the sun, a police cruiser screeched to a halt at the traffic light in front of him.
It wasn't a normal patrol car. It was a S.T.A.R.S. unit.
Inside, sitting in the passenger seat, was a woman. She wore a blue beret, her dark hair cut in a bob. She was checking the slide of her Samurai Edge, her face a mask of focused tension.
Jill Valentine.
For a split second, their eyes met through the glass. She saw a handsome civilian with a gym bag. He saw the hero of the story. Another woman pulling his heart strings.
Even before their eyes met, the light turned green. The cruiser sped off toward the R.P.D. station.
Atlas smiled, hoisting the bag of heavy ordnance onto his shoulder.
"The board is set," he whispered. "Tonight, we hunt."
---
[The Ecliptic Express – Dining Car]
[Time: 8:18 PM]
"To a successful cleanup!"
Dr. Barnes raised his crystal glass of scotch. The scientists cheered. The mood in the dining car was light. The fatigue of the flight was washing away with the alcohol. The U.S.S. guards were stationed at the doors, relaxed, weapons slung low.
The train rattled smoothly over the tracks. The rain lashed against the windows, blurring the forest outside into streaks of green and black.
"So," a junior researcher asked, cutting into a steak. "What's the deal with this Training Facility? Why was it closed?"
"Old politics," Barnes dismissed. "Spencer and Marcus had a falling out. Marcus died. The place was shuttered. Dr. White thinks we can reboot the servers and use the sub-basement for storage. Easy job."
THUMP.
A heavy sound hit the roof of the train.
The conversation stopped. The crystal glasses stopped clinking.
"What was that?" Wilson asked, looking up.
"Tree branch?"
THUMP. THUMP. SLITHER.
It sounded like hail. Heavy, wet hail hitting the metal roof. But hail didn't slither. It didn't sound like wet meat slapping against steel.
"Check it out," Wilson ordered one of his men.
The guard opened the rear door of the car to look out between the carriages.
"Commander?" the guard called back, his voice trembling. "It's... raining slime."
"What?"
"There's this black stuff... it's covering the windows. It's moving."
Suddenly, the vents in the ceiling rattled.
CRACK.
The ventilation grate above the dining table gave way.
It poured in.
A torrent of black leeches fell onto the table, landing in the food, in the drinks, on the scientists.
"AAHH! Get it off!"
"What the fuck!"
The panic was instant. Scientists jumped up, swatting at the creatures. The leeches were the size of fists, slimy and impossibly strong.
One leech latched onto Dr. Barnes' cheek. He screamed, clawing at it, but it slid into his mouth. He gagged, his eyes bulging, as the creature forced its way down his throat, expanding inside his esophagus.
"Open fire!" Wilson roared, raising his rifle.
But what do you shoot? The floor was moving. The walls were bleeding leeches.
The windows shattered inward.
CRASH.
More leeches poured in from the outside. And with them, the infected Leechs.
They were humanoid shapes formed entirely of the slimy creatures. They pulled themselves through the broken windows, grabbing the nearest guards.