RESIDENT EVIL: THE SHADOWS OF UMBRELLA

Chapter 2

Arman took a final, steadying breath as he prepared to step onto the streets. The air was thick with the acrid stench of smoke, burning rubber, and decay, hitting his senses like a wave of nauseating memories from his days in the lab. He pushed forward, gripping his handgun tightly. The streets were a twisted nightmare of twisted metal, crashed cars blocking nearly every path, fires crackling in the remnants of storefronts. The mournful, guttural moans of the infected drifted through the smoke like a dark melody, a constant reminder that death lurked everywhere.

"If anyone's gonna be safe, it's gonna be at the Raccoon Police Department," he muttered, forcing down the doubt that gnawed at the edges of his mind. He picked his way through the chaotic landscape, moving carefully, trying to avoid attracting attention. With every step, his senses were on high alert, hyper-focused on every shadow, every movement in his periphery.

But just as he passed a dented sedan, a zombie lunged at him from behind, its decaying fingers clawing at his jacket. Arman stumbled, barely able to twist in time to brace his forearm against its throat, trying to keep its snapping jaws away from his face. Its breath was fetid, like rot and acid, and the empty eyes staring back at him only served to remind him of the nightmare he'd helped create.

Gritting his teeth, Arman maneuvered his handgun up with his free hand, pressing it against the side of the creature's head. He pulled the trigger, and the deafening blast echoed off the nearby buildings, the shot shattering the eerie silence of the street. Blood and brain matter splattered across his face, a hot, sticky reminder of the horrors of his lab days—the nauseating smell bringing back the memories of experiments, the sterile, blood-streaked floors of Umbrella's labs, the horror lurking in test subjects' eyes. He shoved the creature's body to the ground with disgust, wiping his face with a grimace before stomping his boot down onto the zombie's head to ensure it wouldn't rise again.

"Can't let any of these things turn into Crimson Heads," he muttered, grimly recalling the stories of infected regenerating and returning even more violently. He forced himself to move on, but the horrific memories that surfaced wouldn't let go. Faces of former colleagues, their screams as containment had failed, his own guilt that he'd buried deep. Memories of the life he'd destroyed outside of Umbrella haunted him, too—his failed marriage, the constant battles, and the irreversible damage his career had done to his life. He'd wanted redemption once, but now he wasn't sure he deserved it.

He broke into a run, weaving around wrecked cars and dodging clusters of zombies, his mind blank except for his goal: reach the RPD. Finally, he spotted the fortress-like building rising through the haze, the tall iron gates protecting its steps. Relief surged through him as he sprinted toward the gates, but as he pressed his weight against them, he realized they wouldn't budge. Panic spiked in his chest as he scanned his surroundings. "Damn it," he growled, under his breath. "What am I supposed to do?"

Trying to stay calm, he moved away from the gate and ducked behind a nearby dumpster, scanning the area for any alternative routes while keeping an eye on the approaching zombies. His eyes darted across the rubble-strewn street and finally landed on an alleyway across the road. Narrow and shadowed, it wasn't ideal, but it was the only way that offered some semblance of cover.

Breathing hard, he steeled himself before slipping into the alleyway. It led to a small basketball court overgrown with weeds and scattered with debris. He darted through it, his footsteps echoing off the high walls, when he heard the shuffle of feet behind him. A small horde of zombies had begun to close in on him, drawn by the noise. Their grotesque, rotting faces twisted toward him, and he cursed under his breath, gripping his gun as he aimed and fired. The shots rang out in quick succession, the zombies' heads snapping back as each bullet found its mark, but some of them refused to stay down, lurching back to their feet as if animated by sheer malice.