So I get settled in and a week or two passes, and Irons notices how well written my reports are, or sees how good I am on the target range. He asks me to take a look at the case files, just to familiarize myself with the details so I can do some footwork and I see something that no one else has seen. A pattern, maybe, or a motive on more than one of the victims… maybe I run across a witness report that reads wrong. No one else has caught it because they've lived with it for too long, and this rookie cop just comes along and cracks the case, not a month out of the academy and I…

Something ran in front of the Jeep.

"Jesus!"

Leon hit the brake and swerved, shocked out of his daydream as he struggled for control of the vehicle. The brakes locked and there was a screech of rubber that sounded like a scream. The Jeep half-turned to face the darkening trees that lined the road-and came to a stop on the shoulder, dying after a final 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.