PROLOGUE
Latham Weekly, June 2, 1998
BIZARBE MURDERS COMMITTED IN RACCOON CITY RACCOON CITY—The mutilated body of forty-two-year-old Anna Mitaki was discovered late yesterday in an abandoned lot not far from her home in northwest Raccoon City, making her the fourth victim of the supposed “cannibal killers” to be found in or near the Victory Lake district in the last month. Consistent with the coroner reports of the other recent victims, Mitaki’s corpse showed evidence of having been partially eaten, the bite patterns apparently formed by human jaws.
Shortly after the discovery of Miss Mitaki by two joggers at approximately nine o’clock last night, Chief Irons made a brief statement insisting that the RPD is “working diligently to apprehend the perpetrators of such heinous crimes” and that he is currently consulting with city officials about more drastic protection measures for Raccoon citizens. In addition to the murderous spree of the cannibal killers, three others have died from probable animal attacks in Raccoon Forest in the past several weeks, bringing the toll of mysterious deaths up to seven. . . .
Raccoon Times, June 22, 1998
HORROR IN RACCOONI
MORE VICTIMS DEAD
RACCOON CITY—The bodies of a young couple were found early Sunday morning in Victory Park, making Deanne Rusch and Christopher Smith the eighth and ninth victims in the reign of violence that has terrorized the city since mid-May of this year.
Both victims, aged 19, were reported as missing by concerned parents late Saturday night and were discovered by police officers on the west bank of Victory Lake at approximately 2 A.M. Although no formal statement has been issued .by the police department, witnesses to the discovery confirm that both youths suffered wounds similar to those found on prior victims. Whether or not the attackers were human or animal has yet to be announced.
According to friends of the young couple, the two had talked about tracking down the rumored “wild dogs” recently spotted in the heavily forested park and had planned to violate the city-wide curfew in order to see one of the alleged nocturnal creatures.
Mayor Harris has scheduled a press conference for this afternoon, and is expected to make an announcement regarding the current crisis, calling for a stricter enforce-ment of the curfew. .
Cityside, July 21, 1998
“STARS” SPECIAL TACTICS AND RESCUE SQUAD SENT TO SAVE RACCOON CITY RACCOON CITY— With the reported disappearance of three hikers in Raccoon Forest earlier this week, city officials have finally called for a roadblock on rural Route 6 at the foothills of the Arklay Mountains. Police Chief Brian Irons an-nounced yesterday that the S.T.A.R.S. will participate full-time in the search for the hikers and will also be working closely with the RPD until there is an end to the rash of murders and disappearances that are destroying our com-munity Chief Irons, a former S.T.A.R.S. member himself, said today (in an exclusive Gityside telephone interview) that it is “high time to employ
the talents of these dedicated men and women toward the safety of this city. We’ve had nine brutal murders here in less than two months, and at least five disappearances now—and all of these events have taken place in a close proximity to Raccoon Forest. This leads us to believe that the perpetrators of these crimes may be hiding somewhere in the Victory Lake district, and the S.T.A.R.S. have just the kind of experience we need to find them.” When asked why the S.T.A.R.S. hadn’t been assigned to these cases until now, Chief Irons would only say that the S.T.A.R.S. have been assisting the RPD since the beginning and that they would be a “welcome addition” to the task force currently working on the murders full-time. Founded in New York in 1967, the privately funded S.T.A.R.S. organization was originally created as a measure against cult-affiliated terrorism by a group of retired military officials and ex-field operatives from both the CIA and FBI. Under the guidance of former NSDA (National Security and Defense Agency) director Marco Palmieri, the group quickly expanded its services to include everything from hostage negotiation to code breaking to riot control. Working with local police agencies, each branch office of the 8.T.A.R.S. is designed to work as a complete unit in itself. The S.T.A.R.S. set up its Raccoon City branch through the fund-raising efforts of several local businesses in 1972 and is currently led by Captain Albert Wesker, promoted to the position less than six months ago. ...
ORE
JILL WAS ALREADY LATE FOR THE BRIEFING when she somehow managed to drop her keys into her cup of coffee on the way out the door. There was a muted ting as they hit the bottom, and as she paused in mid-stride, staring in disbelief at the steaming ceramic mug, the thick stack of files she carried under her other arm slid smoothly to the floor. Paper clips and sticky notes scattered across the tan carpeting. “Ah, shit.”
She checked her watch as she turned back toward the kitchen, cup in hand. Wesker had called the meeting for 1900 sharp, which meant she had about nine minutes to make the ten-minute drive, find parking and get her butt into a chair. The first full disclosure meeting since the S.T.A.R.S. had gotten the case—hell, the first real meeting since she’d made the Raccoon transfer—and she was going to be late. Figures. Probably the first time in years I actually give a rat’s ass about being on time and I fall apart at the door. . . .
Muttering darkly she hurried to the sink, feeling tense and angry with herself for not getting ready earlier. It was the case, the goddamn case. She’d picked up her copies of the ME files right after breakfast and spent all day digging through the re-ports, searching for something that the cops had somehow missed—and feeling more and more frus-trated as the day slipped past and she’d failed to come up with anything new.
She dumped the mug and scooped up the warm, wet keys, wiping them against her jeans as she hurried back to the front door. She crouched down to gather the files—and stopped, staring down at the glossy color photo that had ended up on top.
Oh, girls. . . .
She picked it up slowly, knowing that she didn’t have time and yet unable to look away from the tiny, blood-spattered faces. She felt the knots of tension that had been building all day intensify, and for a moment it was all she could do to breathe as she stared at the crime scene photo. Becky and Priscilla McGee, ages nine and seven. She’d flipped past it earlier, telling herself that there was nothing there she needed to see. . . .
. . . But it isn ‘t true, is it? You can keep pretending, or you can admit it—everything’s different now, it’s been different since the day they died. When she’d first moved to Raccoon, she’d been under a lot of
stress, feeling uncertain about the transfer, not even sure if she wanted to stay with the S.T.A.R.S. She was good at the job, but had only taken it because of Dick; after the indictment, he’d started to pressure her to get into another line of work. It had taken awhile, but her father was persis-tent, telling her again and again that one Valentine in jail was one too many, even admitting that he was wrong to raise her the way he had. With her training and background, there weren’t a whole lot of op-tions—but the S.T.A.R.S., at least, appreciated her skills and didn’t care how she came by them. The pay was decent, there was the element of risk she’d grown to enjoy. ... In retrospect, the career change had been surprisingly easy; it made Dick happy, and gave her the opportunity to see how the other half lived. Still, the move had been harder on her than she’d realized. For the first time since Dick had gone inside, she’d felt truly alone, and working for the law had started to seem like a joke—the daughter of Dick Valentine, working for truth, justice, and the Ameri-can way. Her promotion to the Alphas, a nice little house in the suburbs—it was crazy, and she’d been giving serious thought to just blowing out of town, giving the whole thing up, and going back to what she’d been before. . . .
. . . until the two little girls who lived across the street had shown up on her doorstep and asked her with wide, tear-stained eyes if she was really a police-man. Their parents were at work, and they couldn’t find their dog. . . .
. . . Becky in her green school dress, little Pris in her overalls—both of them sniffling and shy . . . The pup had been wandering through a garden only a few blocks away, no sweat—and she’d made two new friends, as easy as that. The sisters had promptly adopted Jill, showing up after school to bring her scraggly bunches of flowers, playing in her yard on weekends, singing her endless songs they’d learned from movies and cartoons. It wasn’t like the girls had miraculously changed her outlook or taken away her loneliness—but somehow her thoughts of leaving had been put on a back burner, left alone for awhile. For the first time in her twenty-three years, she’d started to feel like a part of the community she lived and worked in, the change so subtle and gradual that she’d hardly noticed.
Six weeks ago, Becky and Pris had wandered away from a family picnic in Victory Park—and became the first two victims of the psychopaths that had since terrorized the isolated city.
The photo trembled slightly in her hand, sparing her nothing. Becky lying on her back, staring blindly at the sky, a gaping, ragged hole in her belly. Pris was sprawled next to her, arms outstretched, chunks of flesh ripped savagely from the slender limbs. Both children had been eviscerated, dying of massive trau-ma before they’d bled out. If they’d screamed, no one had heard.. . .
Enough! They’re gone, but you can finally do some-thing about it!
Jill fumbled the papers back into their folder, then stepped outside into the early evening, breathing deeply. The scent of freshly cut grass was heavy in the sun-warmed air. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked happily amidst the shouts of children. She hurried to the small, dented gray hatchback parked by the front walk, forcing herself not to look at the silent McGee house as she started the car and pulled away from the curb. Jill drove through the wide suburban streets of her neighborhood, window down, pushing the speed limit but careful to watch for kids and pets. There weren’t many of either around. Since the trouble had started, more and more people were keeping their children and animals indoors, even during the day.
The little hatchback shuddered as she accelerated up the ramp to Highway 202, the warm, dry air whipping her long hair back from her face. It felt good, like waking up from a bad dream. She sped through the sun-dappled evening, the shadows of trees growing long across the road.
Whether it was fate or just the luck of the draw, her life had been touched by what was happening in
Raccoon City. She couldn’t keep pretending that she was just some jaded ex-thief trying to stay out of jail, trying to toe the line to make her father happy—or that what the S.T.A.R.S. were about to do was just another job. It mattered. It mattered to her that those children were dead, and that the killers were still free to kill again.
The victim files next to her fluttered slightly, the top of the folder caught by the wind; nine restless spirits, perhaps, Becky and Priscilla McGee’s among them. She rested her right hand on the ruffled sheaf, stilling the gentle movement—and swore to herself that no matter what it took, she was going to find out who was responsible. Whatever she’d been before, whatever she would be in the future, she had changed . . . and wouldn’t be able to rest until these murderers of the innocent had been held accountable for their actions.
“Yo, Chris!”
Chris turned away from the soda machine and saw Forest Speyer striding down the empty hall toward him, a wide grin on his tanned, boyish face. Forest was actually a few years older than Chris, but looked like a rebellious teenager—long hair, studded jean jacket, a tattoo of a skull smoking a cigarette on his left shoulder. He was also an excellent mechanic, and one of the best shots Chris had ever seen in action. “Hey, Forest. What’s up?” Chris scooped up a can of club soda from the machine’s dispenser and glanced at his watch. He still had a couple of minutes before the meeting. He smiled tiredly as Forest stopped in front of him, blue eyes sparkling. Forest was carrying an armful of equipment—vest, utility belt, and shoulder pack.
“Wesker gave Marini the go-ahead to start the search. Bravo team’s goin’ in.” Even excited, Forest’s Alabama twang slowed his words to a stereotypical drawl. He dropped his stuff on one of the visitors’ chairs, still grinning widely.
Chris frowned. “When?”
“Now. Soon as I warm up the ‘copter.” Forest pulled the Kevlar vest on over his T-shirt as he spoke. “While you Alphas sit taking notes, we’re gonna go kick some cannibal ass!”
Nothing if not confident, us S.T.A.R.S. “Yeah, well. .. just watch your ass, okay? I still think there’s more going on here than a couple of slobbering nut jobs hanging around in the woods.”
“You know it.” Forest pushed his hair back and grabbed his utility belt, obviously already focused on the mission. Chris thought about saying more, but decided against it. For all of his bravado, Forest was a professional; he didn’t need to be told to be careful. You sure about that, Chris? You think Billy was careful enough?
Sighing inwardly, Chris slapped Forest’s shoulder lightly and headed for ops through the doorway of the small upstairs waiting room and down the hall. He was surprised that Wesker was sending the teams in separately. Although it was standard for the less experienced S.T.A.R.S. to do the initial recon, this wasn’t exactly a standard operation. The number of deaths they were dealing with alone was enough to call for a more aggressive offense. The fact that there were signs of organization to the murders should have brought it to A1 status, and Wesker was still treating it like some kind of a training run.
Nobody else sees it; they didn’t know Billy. .. . Chris thought again about the late-night call he’d gotten last week from his childhood friend. He hadn’t heard from Billy in awhile, but knew that he’d taken a research position with Umbrella, the pharmaceutical company that was the single biggest contributor to the economic prosperity of Raccoon City. Billy had never been the type to jump at shadows, and the
terrified desperation in his voice had jolted Chris awake, filling him with deep concern. Billy had babbled that his life was in danger, that they were all in danger, begged Chris to meet him at a diner at the edge of town—and then never showed up. No one had heard from him since.
Chris had run it over and over again in his mind during the sleepless nights since Billy’s disappear-ance, trying to convince himself that there was no connection to the attacks on Raccoon—and yet was unable to shake his growing certainty that there was more going on than met the eye, and that Billy had known what it was. The cops had checked out Billy’s apartment and found nothing to indicate foul play ... but Chris’s instincts told him that his friend was dead, and that he’d been killed by somebody who wanted to keep him from talking.
And I seem to be the only one. Irons doesn’t give a shit, and the team thinks I’m just torn up over the loss of an old friend. . . .
He pushed the thoughts aside as he turned the corner, his boot heels sending muted echoes through the arched second floor corridor. He had to focus, to keep his mind on what he could do to find out why Billy had disappeared—but he was exhausted, run-ning on a minimum of sleep and an almost constant anxiety that had plagued him since Billy’s call. Maybe he was losing his perspective, his objectivity dulled by recent events. . . .
He forced himself not to think about anything at all as he neared the S.T.A.R.S. office, determined to be clear-headed for the meeting. The buzzing fluores-cents above seemed like overkill in the blazing eve-ning light that filled the tight hallway; the Raccoon police building was a classic, if uncoventional, piece of architecture, lots of inlaid tile and heavy wood, but it had too many windows designed to catch the sun. When he’d been a kid, the building had been the Raccoon City Hall. With the population increase a decade back, it had been renovated as a library, and four years ago, turned into a police station. It seemed like there was always some kind of construction going on. ...
The door to the S.T.A.R.S. office stood open, the muted sounds of gruff male voices spilling out into the hall. Chris hesitated a moment, hearing Chief Irons’s among them. “Just call me Brian” Irons was a self-centered and self-serving politician masquerad-ing as a cop. It was no secret that he had his sweaty fingers in more than a few local pies. He’d even been implicated in the Cider district land-scam back in ‘94, and although nothing had been proved in court, anyone who knew him personally didn’t harbor any doubt.
Chris shook his head, listening to Irons’s greasy voice. Hard to believe he’d once led the Raccoon S.T.A.R.S., even as a paper-pusher. Maybe even hard-er to believe that he’d probably end up as mayor someday.