Al's Rabbit Hole
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Tie the Noose Chapter 1
🕑 Added 2025-08-13 20:07:09 +0000 UTCDaniel awoke to the smell of woodsmoke and the subtle, ever-present whisper of trees swaying overhead. The sky above was a soft, overcast gray, diffused through a canopy of summer leaves, and for a moment- only a moment, he lay still, trying to reconcile the scene with his last memory.
He had not gone to bed here.
He sat up slowly, groggy, blinking away grit from his lashes and brushing pine needles from the flannel sleeves of a shirt he didn't remember wearing. A half-burnt log crackled in a small firepit a few feet away, lazy smoke curling upward. His heart beat harder as awareness settled like dust. This wasn't a campground he knew. No picnic tables. No parking lot. No tent, either, until he noticed the low one-man bivvy pitched nearby.
The forest smelled clean, wild. Alive. That wasn't right.
He was not Daniel when he went to bed, not exactly. Not like this. The name fit too easily now, like a coat he'd always owned but never worn properly. He couldn't say what had changed, only that something had. His memories were hazy, dry, like archived VHS footage; low fidelity, no emotion. He could picture his apartment's yellowed blinds, could see the off-brand grocery where he used to punch in at dawn, could remember the breakup. The hollow sting of it was there, but muted, like it happened to someone else. Everything before this morning felt secondhand.
He knew, without question, that it was July 1997. Right after the Fourth. He had a cheap economy car. A run-down, one-bedroom apartment near the outskirts of Raccoon City. A bit in savings, not much. The job didn't pay well, but it kept him afloat. And he'd moved recently, upended his whole life after the relationship finally collapsed in on itself. At least that's what his memories told him.
But none of that explained this.
None of it explained why he was waking up in a random forest outside of a fictional city.
His throat tightened as the dissonance hit. He wasn't dreaming. The air was too crisp. The sensation of pine needles stabbing through the blanket beneath him was too sharp. The fire smelled of real sap and old wood. He was awake, but nothing made sense. His head spun. His hands trembled slightly.
Am I losing it?
That was when a voice came from behind him..
"Well," it drawled, slow and easy, from just behind him, "aren't you a peculiar sight."
Daniel startled violently, his hand instinctively reaching for… nothing. No knife. No gun. It was a reflex he'd trained into himself when he first started carrying concealed, back in the… future? What the hell was he even supposed to call this? There was nothing there, just dirt under his fingernails. He turned sharply, and the world seemed to tilt as the man reached out and steadied him with a strong grip to his arm.
"Careful there, partner," the voice continued, low and syrupy. "You just came to. Wouldn't do to crack your head open on the firepit."
The man's grip was firm but not harsh, and Daniel's eyes adjusted quickly as he took in the figure before him.
Everything about the man was wrong. Not grotesque, not monstrous, but out of joint with reality. His fatigues were military surplus, but none of it matched. Woodland camo, urban digital, desert tan, all faded and moth-eaten. A tactical plate carrier hung across his broad chest, ratty pouches neatly organized with a mechanic's eye for balance, but run down like they'd been pulled from the garbage bin after a hundred years in the field. A weathered cloak hung like a curtain down his back, its hood drawn low. A bandanna covered his hair, and a shemagh wrapped around the lower half of his face.
But the eyes. God.
They were jaundiced and yellow, sunken deep into waxy pale skin that looked like it hadn't seen fresh sunlight in months, maybe years. A constellation of old scars and skin warts lined the exposed cheeks and brow. Those eyes were fixed on Daniel with calm focus, not suspicion or menace, but a watchful patience.
"Who-" the word, scratchy and dry, came from Daniel's throat, only to be cut off with a dry cough. The man waved him off, fishing out a beaten and battered canteen from his hip, offering it to Daniel. The water was warm, but clean, and it soothed his itchy throat.
"Name's not important," the man said, after taking his canteen back and easing onto a squat stool beside the fire, hands resting loosely on his knees. "Most folk just call me the Survivalist. I call these woods home."
Daniel tried to speak. No words came out. He was lost, so many questions in his mind, but none wanted to come out. Instead he forced his lips shut and looked around, trying to gather his thoughts. He took stock of where he was, what he saw, trying to jog a memory of something, anything, that would explain what was happening. The man, the Survivalist, watched patiently, as he stirred a camping pot over the small flame.
But nothing helped. A tent. A folding stool. The firepit. Behind the man, nestled partly under a heavy tarp, sat a massive green military crate. Daniel recognized the type, footlocker-style, reinforced hinges, big enough to hold an arsenal or enough supplies to make camping an easy venture and then some. It was marked with faded stenciling, and even from here, he could tell it was the kind of crate that wasn't meant to be opened by just anyone.
"How-" Daniel finally croaked, throat raspy, "how did I get here? What... is this?" He finally forced out. "What's going on here!?"
The Survivalist didn't answer. Instead, he gestured gently at the space around them with a tilt of his chin.
"Better question, partner," he said, "is where do you think you are?"
Daniel blinked. The fog in his brain swirled, forming shapes, none of them solid. But then the name came, like a whisper, it crackled across his mind like static across a dead television screen.
"Raccoon City," he said.
The words hung in the air like smoke.
It couldn't be. It wasn't real. It was from a game. A series he played in his teens. Zombies. Labs. That red-and-white logo. Umbrella. He'd never really had a chance to get into the later games, or god forbid, those movies that just sounded terrible from the trailers alone. He had better things to do, adult things. Life had been too busy for it.
His heart began to pound. He turned his head toward the treeline as if he might see them emerging already. Undead things. Dogs with their skin flayed away. Lickers crawling across bark.
"I... I'm outside of it, right?" he whispered, as if speaking louder might call it into being. "Camping. Just outside."
The Survivalist's eyes crinkled slightly. If he was amused, he hid it well.
"You seem a bit out of sorts, stranger," he said, voice warm but not comforting. "Can't say I blame you."
Daniel looked down at his hands. They were his hands. Calloused. Familiar. But he didn't feel like himself anymore.
Something was very, very wrong. And yet, this… this felt real.
Too real to be anything else.
Daniel's breath stuttered as his vision came back into focus. The Survivalist's hands were no longer on him, but their presence lingered in the weight of the moment. His heart was still hammering in his chest, and he realized he had dug his fingers into the dirt beside him, half-expecting something to grab him from underneath.
The fire cracked again. The Survivalist shifted on his stool, the same battered thing he must have carried here by hand. He sat like he belonged to the woods, like the trees had grown up around him and simply accepted his presence. Everything about him whispered permanence, but not safety.
Daniel swallowed hard and tried again.
"None of this makes sense. I wasn't... I didn't fall asleep here. I wasn't even dressed like this," he said, gesturing vaguely at the outdoorsman outfit clinging to his body. Canvas pants, layered flannel, boots worn to softness. He didn't remember putting them on. They fit too well. "This isn't where I went to bed."
"That so?" the Survivalist said mildly, reaching down to stoke the fire with the end of a stick. Sparks leapt and scattered. "Sounds like it might be you were always meant to wake up here, then." Daniel stared at the old man, and he was old, ancient even. That… what? That shouldn't make sense because it was insane, so why did it? No… it's…
Daniel rubbed at his temples, trying to focus through the pressure building behind his eyes.
"This is a dream," he said, mostly to himself. "Or I'm having a breakdown. Something... something fractured."
"Could be," the Survivalist said, in his vague, wandering tone. "Wouldn't be the strangest thing I've seen."
Daniel looked around again, this time taking in the setting more carefully. It wasn't just any woods. There were signs of regular use- a small pile of split firewood under a tarp, a canvas roll bundled neatly beside the tent, a lantern hooked from a nearby branch. Whoever this man was, he lived like this. Comfortably. Intentionally. The green crate at his side hadn't budged, but Daniel felt a strange weight pressing from its direction, like gravity had thickened near it.
"I need to get my bearings. Figure out how I got here. What road this is. Who brought me." His voice sounded increasingly thin.
The Survivalist didn't answer directly. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his thighs. "Tell me, Daniel, where do you think 'here' is?"
Daniel's head snapped up at the name. He hadn't introduced himself.
"You- how do you know my name?"
"The trees know things, Daniel. I didn't know before…" the man said with a slow shrug. "But now I do."
Daniel's mouth opened and closed. He didn't have an answer for that. Just a growing unease curling through his gut.
"Or," the man continued, as he flicked something at Daniel, who caught it awkwardly, "Your wallet fell out of yer pocket. Might want to do a better job holding onto that."
Daniel stared at him, blinking, and the absurdity just hit him all at once. He couldn't stop the giggle from bubbling up, the manic moment of shocked confusion as he stared at the folded leather in his hand, his driver's license prominently displayed. He stared at it with a frankly bewildered look on his face. At first he tried to get himself under control, but it was a losing battle, and even the Survivalist gave a laugh at the whole thing. It was an odd thing to experience, but it just… it helped. Not a lot, but enough, to get him thinking again.
But that unease sat in his gut like a rock, and as the small moment faded, he tried to shift the conversation. "This can't be Raccoon City. It's not real. I know that. I played those games when I was younger. I remember... bits of it. The mansion in the woods. Zombies. Some movie series they made that totally missed the point." He laughed once, dryly. "I think I skipped most of them. Wasn't into horror."
"Yet here you are," the Survivalist said, his tone laced with easy humor. "Funny how life works, ain't it?"
Daniel forced himself to his feet. He took three steps away from the fire before stopping, his boots crunching pine needles and loose soil. The forest spread in all directions, dense but not oppressive. There was a clearing nearby, maybe where a vehicle could've been parked, but no sound of roads, no humming power lines, no people.
He turned slowly, afraid of what he might see, and what he might not.
"Something's coming," he said aloud. "I can't remember what, exactly. Just that... it gets worse. Everything breaks. The city. The people. The dead."
The Survivalist watched him calmly, the firelight flickering against the shemagh that hid the lower half of his face. His eyes, jaundiced and ancient-looking, showed no alarm. Only quiet understanding.
"Nothing out in these woods but some bears," he said. "Maybe a raccoon or two, if you're lucky."
"No," Daniel said, shaking his head. "You don't get it. I don't know how or why, but I remember the name Raccoon City for a reason. I remember what's supposed to happen. I don't remember every detail, but... it's bad. Umbrella. Bioweapons. An outbreak. They built the end of the world in a lab and buried it underneath a town."
The Survivalist leaned back with a soft grunt, folding his arms. "Suppose you're right. What're you gonna do about it?"
Daniel froze.
He turned back toward the man slowly.
"I-" He stopped. The words fell apart on his tongue.
What was he going to do? He was nobody. A guy who knew his way around knives from his job, and maybe a bit about shooting from the too few range visits he'd had over the years. He had no plan, no contacts, no real training. He wasn't Leon Kennedy. He wasn't Chris Redfield. Hell, he wasn't even someone who played the games more than once, and not even all of them. His heart pounded in his ears as the realization settled on him like dust on a coffin lid.
"I don't know," he said quietly.
The Survivalist tilted his head slightly, like a curious dog. "Then maybe that's your first problem."
Daniel wanted to argue, to snap back, but he didn't. Because the man wasn't wrong.
He didn't know how he'd gotten here. He didn't know how much time he had. And he didn't know what was going to happen next.
All he knew was that it was coming.
And he had no idea how to stop it.
Daniel stood motionless, the question still hanging in the air like the fading warmth of a slap.
What are you going to do about it?
He stared down at his hands. The fingers were still dirt-streaked, his nails chipped. A faint tremor worked through them, a tension that refused to settle. That was all he was, really. Hands, feet, breath, and panic. He wasn't a cop. Wasn't a soldier. He wasn't built for this. His instincts weren't tuned for threat assessment or contingency plans. His mind was screaming for order, for structure. For someone to tell him what came next.
But no one would. That was the point.
The fire cracked behind him, a low punctuation in the silence. He didn't turn to look. The Survivalist was still there, of course. Always calm. Always waiting. Not judging. Just... watching.
Daniel crouched beside a patch of ferns, elbows on his knees. The world didn't make more sense from this angle, but it felt smaller. Closer. Manageable. He focused on the flicker of a beetle crawling across a root, its tiny legs navigating the terrain with unconscious purpose. That's what Daniel lacked: purpose.
The Survivalist's question lingered. It wasn't just rhetorical. It was a wedge, splitting something open in him that had been sealed tight.
"I don't know," Daniel said at last. His voice was soft, more exhale than statement.
There was no derision in the Survivalist's tone when he replied. "Honest answer. Most folk never get that far."
Daniel exhaled slowly. His eyes tracked the beetle until it vanished under a stone. The woods didn't care who he was. The trees didn't care what he remembered. The situation didn't ask if he was ready.
He rubbed a palm against his face, feeling the short stubble on his jaw, the warmth of his own breath. Something was forming inside him; not a plan, not yet, but a realization. There would be no cavalry. No rescue teams. No checkpoints. If this was the world he feared it was, then people were going to die by the thousands, maybe more. And the only ones who might make a difference were the ones who chose to.
His mouth was dry again. He turned toward the Survivalist, who had produced a small metal tin from one of his vest pouches. He thumbed it open and tapped something onto his palm before tossing the tin back into a pocket.
Daniel watched the motion. Casual. Familiar. Not careless. "You act like this isn't unusual."
"I've seen unusual," the Survivalist said, flicking a bit of dried jerky into his mouth. "This? This is just another flavor of weird. World's got plenty of them."
Daniel's brow furrowed. "Do you know what's going to happen?"
The Survivalist gave a soft chuckle, a breathy sound that didn't rise above the hiss of the fire.
"You're lookin' for answers, and I'm just sittin' here passin' time," he said. "Ain't my place to draw your maps, partner."
"I'm not asking for a map," Daniel said. "I just need to know if I'm crazy."
The man tilted his head. "Crazy folks don't ask if they are. They just go about their business like the world's wrong for disagreein'."
Daniel let the silence build again. He stood, his knees popping softly, and paced in a slow arc around the fire, eyes flicking between the crate, the trees, and the man beside the flames.
"There's no version of this where I stay out of it," he said with a hint of resignation in his voice.. "If what I think is coming... actually comes... then the city's done. And if it's real, then waiting around means watching people die." More than that, if Umbrella just… really did cause the apocalypse just by setting off this whale mess. The not knowing was terrifying, but the knowing that he didn't know was worse.
The Survivalist made no move to confirm or deny. He just nodded, once, as if Daniel had said something worth hearing.
"I can't just sit in the woods," Daniel muttered. "And I sure as hell can't pretend it's not real, especially if the alternative is watching it all burn down if I'm wrong."
He turned toward the fire again and saw the man watching him closely now, something unreadable in those jaundiced eyes.
"Then you got one question left," the Survivalist said. "Not what's gonna happen. Not how it happened. Just this: what are you gonna do when it does?"
Daniel didn't answer. Not yet. But this time, he wasn't silent because he didn't know. He was silent because something was beginning to settle behind his ribs. It wasn't a plan. It wasn't courage. It was resolve, low and hot, like coals waiting to catch.
He didn't need a perfect answer. He just needed a direction.
And maybe, just maybe, the will to follow it.
The words had been easy enough to say before- "I can't run," "I can't hide", but now, standing in the stillness of the forest, Daniel realized that was only part of it. Refusing to retreat wasn't the same thing as moving forward. Saying no to one path didn't make another one appear.
"I don't know how to fight," he said finally, the admission bitter on his tongue. "I mean, yeah, I've handled guns. I've gone shooting before. But that's not the same."
The Survivalist gave a soft grunt, leaning back slightly in his stool. His silhouette framed by the fire was unmoving, steady, like a statue carved out of ash and leather.
"Most folks don't," the man said. "'Til they're forced to."
Daniel's jaw clenched. He wanted to refute it. Wanted to argue that he wasn't like other people, that this situation was different, that he was facing something impossible. But he couldn't. Because he wasn't sure it was impossible. And he wasn't sure being "like other people" meant anything anymore.
He closed his eyes and tried to picture the city. Tall buildings. Neon signs. Something modern, yet just past its expiration date. A little too clean on the surface. But beneath it, something rotting. That much, he remembered. The wrongness that ran underneath Raccoon City wasn't always visible, but it was there. Bought and paid for by white-coated men in labs buried under the soil.
Umbrella wasn't just a company. It was the spider at the center of the web. And the web was massive.
Daniel opened his eyes again. "The city's owned. I don't think... I don't think there's a single cop in that station who isn't either in the dark or in someone's pocket. Anyone who tries to talk gets buried. I remember that much. There was a reporter... Ben something. He tried to blow the whistle."
He looked at the fire. Its reflection danced in his eyes.
"They crushed him," he said, barely above a whisper. "Left him in a cell. He was warning people. And they killed him for it."
The Survivalist gave a low nod. "Sounds about right."
Daniel laughed once, short and humorless. "You're not surprised."
"Seen the same story told with different names," the man replied. "Never ends well for the first voice."
Daniel rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his palm. "So what, then? If that's what happens to the people who speak up, what chance do I have of doing anything?"
"None," the Survivalist said casually. "If all you're bringing is words."
That stopped Daniel. He looked at the man, waiting for some follow-up. There wasn't one.
"What would you suggest?" he asked, more sharply than he meant to. "Because if I had any idea what to do, I wouldn't be asking."
The Survivalist didn't bristle. He didn't show offense. He simply leaned forward and, from one of the smaller pockets of his vest, produced something round and metallic. It glinted in the firelight as he rolled it between his fingers- a coin. It shimmered like something from a forgotten century, heavy with implied worth.
"What if you took a third option?" the man asked.
Daniel blinked. "What third option?"
The Survivalist held the coin up between thumb and forefinger. "If you can't run, and you won't hide... then you gotta stand."
Daniel's lips parted. "I just told you-"
The coin arced toward him before he could finish. Reflex took over. His hand closed around it as it landed in his palm, warm from the fire, solid and cool at the same time. He stared at it. The surface was etched with strange markings. Not letters, exactly. Not currency from any nation he recognized. But it felt like money. Or something older
.
He looked back at the man.
"And what exactly am I supposed to fight with?"
"A man can fight anything," the Survivalist said, "if he's got the right weapon."
Daniel's fingers closed tighter around the coin. Its weight was reassuring, like a doorstop against panic.
"I barely have enough money on me for gas, much less a gun. And even if I did I don';t know how to use the kind of hardware you're talking about."
"You'll learn," the man said, and shrugged. "Motivation's the best teacher there is."
Daniel raised an eyebrow. "And you'll teach me?"
The Survivalist shook his head slowly. "Not my place. I deal in materiel, not instruction. That part's on you."
Daniel studied the man. His tone had changed slightly, like something formal had begun. The coin wasn't a gift. It was a marker. An offer of intent.
"You really expect me to go into that city with a coin and figure out how to take on a corporation?"
"No," the man said. "I expect you to want to."
Daniel hesitated.
"I don't even know where to start."
"You've got time to figure it out," the Survivalist said. "Not much. But enough."
Daniel looked down at the coin again, the fire's light catching its rim in flecks of incandescence.
"What's this supposed to do?"
"It opens doors," the man said. "Just gotta find the right ones."
Daniel held the heavy metal disc tight.
He didn't feel ready.
But maybe readiness wasn't the point.
Daniel stared at the coin, turning it between his fingers. The metal was cool again now, no longer carrying the warmth of the fire. Its weight was strange, not in mass, but in implication. It wasn't a trinket. It wasn't symbolic. The Survivalist had given it to him like it meant something,and Daniel had no idea what.
"What can I use it for?" he asked, clarifying.
The Survivalist reached beside his stool and tapped the corner of the large green military crate with the toe of his boot.
"I've got connections," he said. "The kind that knows how to find things. Rare things. Expensive things. Dangerous things."
Daniel raised an eyebrow. "You're telling me I can buy weapons with this? From you?"
"More like trade," the man said. "But not with money. I don't take dollars. Don't care what's printed on 'em. What matters to my circle is value. And value comes in all shapes."
Daniel lowered the coin slightly. "What kind of value?"
"Depends on the buyer," the Survivalist said. "Some want intel. Real stuff, not hearsay. Others want gold, silver, gems, old-world trinkets. Medical gear. Some'll trade for military scrap or tech. You find something someone wants, and you've got yourself a token. Then you come see me."
Daniel's brow furrowed. "And I'll just know what's worth something?"
The Survivalist chuckled. "You'll figure it out. Or you won't."
"That's not helpful."
"Not tryin' to be. I'm not here to walk you through it."
Daniel stepped away from the fire, the coin still cradled in his hand. He crouched down, reaching for a small, weathered rucksack, sitting under the edge of the tent flap. Something told him it was his, though he didn't remember packing it.
He looked back at the man. "So, what? You give me a coin, and that's it?"
The Survivalist reached into a pouch on his vest and withdrew a small leather sack. He tossed it underhanded toward Daniel, who caught it with both hands. The pouch was soft, tied shut with a knotted bit of cord.
"A welcome gift," the man said. "Consider it a housewarming. Call it a bet. Whatever makes you feel better about it."
Daniel loosened the cord and looked inside.
Six more coins met his gaze. Three bronze. Two silver. One gold. And in his hand already, one platinum.
His eyes widened.
"What are these worth?"
"Bronze'll get you the basics. Ammo. Food. Replacements. Silver's for upgrades or patch-ups. Gold buys weapons, among other high-end goodies. And platinum?" The man gave a low, appreciative whistle. "That'll get you into some real interesting business. Maybe buy a secret or two." He chuckled, "But you can do with that what you will. Spend high on a low item, you get more. No doubling up on the high-up stuff. That road's one way. Either way I won't tell you how to spend it, just what's on tap."
Daniel shook his head, still staring into the pouch. "Why are you giving me this?"
"You look like a man who's been kicked into the deep end," the Survivalist said. "You don't know how to swim, but you haven't sunk yet. That's the kind of man who might learn fast."
Daniel closed the pouch and tucked it into his pocket.
"I don't even know where to start. I don't have a plan."
"Then maybe you ought to make one," the man said simply. "'Cause all the gear in the world don't mean squat if you don't know what you're gonna do with it."
Daniel frowned, and for a moment, he thought about arguing. But what could he say? The man was right.
His mind raced through fragments. Half remembered locations in the games, vague impressions of people whose faces he couldn't recall. Aside from the big names, a few side characters. He didn't know enough. Not yet. But he'd have to.
"You said you have connections," Daniel said slowly. "If I brought you something Umbrella doesn't want found... data, footage, that kind of thing..."
The Survivalist held up a gloved hand.
"Slow down there, partner. That kinda trade don't come cheap. You want something to go somewhere specific? That's gold, easy, or platinum. And it better be good."
Daniel narrowed his eyes. "You'd really trade something for that?"
"I don't deal in maybes or favors," the man said. "You bring me something solid, and I'll get it into the right hands. But it's a one-way street. No refunds. No safety net."
Daniel thought about that. If this world really was headed for collapse, then information might be his best weapon. Proof. Evidence. Enough to make people listen before it was too late.
But getting that kind of proof would mean going places no sane person wanted to be.
And doing things no normal person would survive.
He looked at the fire again, the coins in his pocket like a pulse against his thigh.
"Alright," he said. "No hiding. No running. I'll figure something out."
The Survivalist nodded once, then turned back toward the crate. He pulled open the ledger resting on its lid, flipping through pages like a priest with scripture. He didn't offer anything more. No advice. No encouragement.
Daniel made the mistake of thinking this was the moment he'd finally get answers. He stepped in close again, the fire casting gold along the bottom of his jacket, pouch of coins secure at his side. His fingers toyed with the platinum piece, rolling it over his knuckles as he stared at the Survivalist.
"Why me?" he asked.
The man didn't flinch. "Why not?"
Daniel frowned. "No, really. You knew when I'd wake up.You were waiting for me. You act like none of this is news to you, and so you give me a bag of weird coins and send me on my way?"
The Survivalist set the ledger aside. "I hand out tools. What people do with 'em? That's their story, not mine."
Daniel crossed his arms. "You've been through this before."
"Maybe."
"With other people."
"Could be."
Daniel stepped closer. "What are you?"
The Survivalist's gaze didn't waver. His eyes, jaundiced and shadowed, reflected the firelight but gave away nothing else. After a beat, he reached into a belt pouch and drew out his battered canteen, taking a slow drink before screwing the cap back on. No rush. No tension.
"I'm the same as I look," he said finally. "Man in the woods with gear to trade."
That felt like a lie, but not in the usual way. Daniel didn't think the man was lying to deceive him. He was lying like someone who'd had to give that answer a thousand times before and never once meant it.
"You could help me," Daniel said. "You have gear. You have experience. I bet you could walk into Umbrella's front doors and get out clean."
The Survivalist chuckled at that. "Maybe once, sure. But this ain't my fight, son. I'm just the quartermaster."
Daniel opened his mouth, ready to argue, then stopped. Something deep in his gut told him not to push. He couldn't say why. The Survivalist wasn't threatening. Not overtly. But there was an edge to him that felt coiled, buried just deep enough to forget until you stepped wrong.
He changed tactics.
"Then what now?" Daniel asked. "You just vanish again? Leave me here with a sack of coins and no idea what comes next?"
"That's about the shape of it," the man said with a nod. "You're not empty-handed, though. That's more than most get."
Daniel swallowed hard. The weight of the moment settled on him. This wasn't a dream anymore. If it ever had been, it wasn't now.
He turned away and sat beside the fire, folding his long legs slowly. The warmth soaked into his jeans and pushed back the chill that had crept under his collar. He let the silence grow.
The Survivalist didn't leave right away. In fact, he lingered longer than Daniel expected. They didn't speak much after that. Every time Daniel tried to steer the conversation back to his situation- who brought him here, why it was him, what the rules were, the man would gently reroute things. Sometimes with a joke. Sometimes with a quiet shrug. Sometimes just by ignoring the question altogether.
But when the topic shifted to the world? To gear, stories, the things men did when faced with the impossible? The Survivalist opened up.
He told a tale about a man who once tried to sneak through a hanger full of enemy guards with nothing but cardboard box. Another about someone who'd built an entire bunker out of scavenged mall debris, only to trap himself inside when the door jammed. The stories were strange, vivid, and disjointed. Maybe they were lies. But if they were, they were told with the comfort of long memory.
Daniel found himself listening. Not because the stories mattered, but because the cadence, the tone, the rhythm of the man's voice kept him tethered to something solid.
At some point, the Survivalist stood. No grand gesture. No farewell.
"Won't be here long," he said. "Next time you see me, you'll need a reason."
Daniel nodded. The weight of the coins were heavy in his pocket as the Survivalist made his way out, his crate lifted up as if it were weightless in his arms, and his stool swept up just as quickly. Small meal he'd cooked had long since been eaten, and the stories had been told.
He looked up again, but the man was already at the edge of the clearing, moving through the trees without sound, his cloak trailing softly behind him.
"Wait," Daniel called out. "Why help me at all?"
The Survivalist stopped at the treeline. He looked back, just enough for Daniel to catch the gleam of those ruined yellow eyes under the hood.
"Because you're gonna need it," he said.
Then he turned, and the forest swallowed him.
With the sun gone and the stars out, there was a great and heavy sense of tiredness that took him. It wasn't long before he stoked the fire once more, before laying down under the hanging edge of the makeshift shelter. Then he blinked.
Daniel awoke with a sharp breath, the kind that came from a dream slipping away too fast. The sun was already filtering through the canopy in broad strokes of gold, and for a moment, he didn't know where he was. Then the ache in his shoulders caught up to him. The dirt. The scattered pine needles. The chill in his clothes.
He was still in the woods.
He pushed himself upright, his spine stiff from sleeping in the chill of the morning. The air was quiet, almost too quiet. No fire crackled nearby. No scent of woodsmoke. No echoes of anything but him. Just the forest, gently rustling with the breeze and alive with birdsong.
The camp was gone.
Gone completely.
He turned in a slow circle, disoriented. The tent. The wood pile. The remnants of the meal they'd shared. All of it had vanished. Even the ashes of the fire were almost entirely cleared, like they'd been swept aside by a careful hand. The pine needles had been scattered to cover what little remained. Only the faintest, trampled imprint of feet remained in the dirt, and even those were soft around the edges. As if they hadn't been made last night, but days ago.
Daniel's breath came slow and steady. Not panicked. Just... careful.
The pouch was still there, tucked into his pocket. He pulled it out and untied the cord with numb fingers. The coins inside shifted with a soft chime: three bronze, two silver, one gold and the platinum, sitting atop them all in the little bag. He had been laying on the rucksack, the bag filled with what few possessions he'd kept in this "life".
That much was real.
The rest of it; the firelight, the stories, the Survivalist's voice- it already felt like something dreamt, the kind of dream that clung to the ribs but dissolved when chased.
Daniel sat down slowly on the same patch of ground he'd used the night before. The sun was rising higher now, throwing soft morning heat across the forest floor. His head rested in his hands.
The world had changed, and so had he. Not in any grand way. He hadn't transformed into someone else overnight. But there was a weight in him now that hadn't been there before. A certainty.
There was no going back.
Not just because of where he was, or what was coming. But because he'd made the choice already, somewhere in the middle of the conversation he could barely remember.
He wasn't going to run.
He wasn't going to hide.
So the only thing left was to act.
He stood slowly, dusting off his jeans, and scanned the woods with new eyes. The clearing looked... different. Not in any obvious way, but in feel. What had seemed like a little pocket of safety last night now looked exposed. Temporary. The trees leaned closer somehow. The path back to the road revealed itself not as a trail, but a thinning of brush he hadn't noticed before.
He followed it, one careful step after another.
His car was there.
Just twenty feet off the shoulder of an old, cracked asphalt road, nestled between two birch trees. The driver's side door was still closed. No signs of tampering. It looked exactly like it had the last time he'd parked it. Whenever that had been.
The windshield was fogged from the cool air, the side mirrors still damp with dew.
Daniel opened the door and slid into the driver's seat. The air inside smelled faintly of cheap pine air freshener and old upholstery. His hands rested on the wheel. He stared out the windshield at the tree line for a long time.
He could turn the key. Drive until the gas ran out. Maybe hit a diner. Pretend it was just some hallucination, some bad episode of déjà vu wrapped in a camping trip. But he wouldn't. He couldn't.
The pouch of coins sat beside him on the passenger seat. It weighed less than it should have. Or maybe he just thought it should weigh more.
This is real.
He held the pouch in his hand, fishing out a shining coin. The firelight was gone, but it still gleamed in the soft morning sun. Still etched with those strange, unknowable markings.
A housewarming gift, a bet, whatever made him feel better.
Daniel turned the key. The engine sputtered and coughed, then caught. The whole frame shuddered once, like a sick dog stretching after a cold night. The fuel gauge trembled and settled on just under a quarter tank.
Enough to get to the city.
Not enough to get anywhere else.
Daniel shifted the car into drive.
The tires crunched over gravel and old road salt as he eased forward.
He didn't look back.
There was nothing there to see.
Just a patch of forest that had already forgotten him.
000
The tires hummed against the worn blacktop as Daniel steered his clattering economy car down the long stretch of road that led into Raccoon City. The sky overhead was a drab sheet of gray, thick with low-hanging cloud. No sun broke through. It wasn't stormy, just overcast in the way that dulled color and made the edges of the world feel softer, less defined. It suited his mood.
The road was quiet. Unnaturally so.
Not deserted, exactly. He passed a few early commuters, the odd delivery van, a rusted pickup truck dragging a cloud of dust behind it. But there was a stillness to it all that made him feel like he was slipping between layers of something between what was, what would be, and what no one else seemed to notice yet.
He gripped the wheel loosely with one hand, the other resting on the windowsill. The coin pouch sat in the cup holder, its weight a quiet reminder with every turn and jostle of the car. His thoughts drifted as he drove.
There were two things he knew for certain. One: somewhere in the woods north of town sat a mansion that wasn't a mansion at all. He couldn't remember the name of it, couldn't recall exactly how it fit, but he knew it was more than it pretended to be and not the innocuous landmark that it hit itself behind.
Two: beneath the city, there was another lab. Bigger. Deeper. Hidden in plain sight or so thoroughly covered up that no one dared talk about it. Installed quietly, either behind closed doors or with people paid to look the other way. That was how these things always worked; money in the right pockets, or threats in the dark. Sometimes both.
He glanced at the skyline in the distance. Raccoon City. From a distance, it looked like any other small American city straining to appear bigger than it was. But he knew better. This wasn't just another town. This was Umbrella's town.
Hospitals. Government. Law enforcement. Press.
He remembered flashes. The police chief… Something Irons? He was all about taxidermy, but it wasn't animals he'd been obsessed with, but some girl. It was a memorable scene, the lady, a pretty blonde, laid out dead on his desk while he salivated over stuffing her like a trophy. That stuck with him. The way the memory made his skin crawl told him it wasn't fiction.
The mayor? Probably in someone's pocket. Same with the city council. State and federal oversight would be filtered through layers of controlled channels. Umbrella didn't need brute force to run things. They had infrastructure. Legacy. A public face clean enough to blind half the country. The irony was palpable. People loved Umbrella. Their tech and pharmaceuticals was synonymous with progress, and Americans worshipped progress, and especially technology, like new age gods.
That made everything harder. Exposure wasn't just a matter of evidence, it was a matter of access. Of trust. If the Survivalist was to be believed, Daniel had a pipeline. Someone, somewhere, could use the kind of information he planned to find. But how far could he trust the old man?
There was something wrong about him. Not in any one detail, but in the whole. The way he moved, the way he acted, his general demeanor and a thousand things besides.. The way his camp had vanished like fog on the wind, burned away with the rising sun. The way the morning had felt thinner, like the world had contracted around the space where the man had sat.
Daniel flexed his fingers on the wheel.
The Survivalist had offered him something- resources, an opportunity, but not friendship. Not mentorship. And definitely not safety. That coin pouch was a gift, sure. But it was also a test.
A siren wailed behind him.
Daniel flinched.
Red and blue lights flared in the rearview mirror, washing the interior in color. His gut clenched in a split-second burst of panic before he crushed it down. No way this was about him. Not yet. There was no reason for anyone to be looking. Not unless he was already on a list. And if he was? There was nothing he could do now except cooperate.
He eased the car onto the shoulder, shifted into park, and set his hands on the wheel.
The motorcycle pulled up alongside him. The engine cut. The officer approached on foot, helmet still on. The visor was down.
"Morning," the officer said, voice muffled slightly by the helmet. "License and registration, please."
Daniel reached for the glovebox, careful and deliberate. He handed over the documents without a word. The officer took them and glanced through the papers, then asked, "What brings you out this way so early?"
Daniel answered honestly. "Driving into town. Got a new apartment. Just moving in."
The officer nodded once. "New start?"
"Yeah," Daniel said. "Needed a change. Broke off a bad relationship and figured I'd try a fresh zip code."
The officer paused for a moment, then gave a small huff that might have been a chuckle.
"Yeah," he said, "been there myself."
He flipped the visor up, and Daniel caught a glimpse of a face- tired eyes, strong jaw, a few days past a shave. The badge said Ryman, but it wasn't a name he recognized.
"Alright, Mr. Carter," Officer Ryman said. "You were going a little fast, but the roads are empty and you've got enough on your plate. I'm letting you off with a warning."
Daniel blinked, then offered a small nod. "Thanks. Appreciate you being cool about it."
Kevin handed back his documents. "Just keep it under the limit from here on out. Welcome to Raccoon."
He returned to his bike, flipped the visor down, and pulled away with a short burst of speed that scattered dust over the shoulder.
Daniel sat in place for another ten seconds, the engine idling, the feeling in his chest harder to name than fear.
Something about the exchange had felt... jarring.
It was... normal.
Weirdly, disarmingly normal.
He'd been expecting something different. Maybe tension. A deeper line of questioning. The way Kevin handled it, though, just a regular officer doing a regular job, being decent… it almost knocked the wind out of him.
Not every person in this place was part of something dark. That was the dangerous part, wasn't it? Most of them were just people. Doing jobs. Living lives. Commuting to and from the city. Just average, everyday, normal things, and not one of them knowing they were on the edge of a cliff.
He shifted into drive and pulled back onto the road, the hum of the tires returning as background noise.
It took a while for his heart rate to settle.
The highway stretched on in lazy, unbothered curves, lined with the faded green of summer trees and the occasional billboard, half-peeled and sun-bleached. Daniel kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting in his lap, fingers drumming out a slow rhythm that didn't match the music from the radio. He wasn't really listening to it anyway. The noise was there more out of habit than purpose.
His thoughts circled back to Kevin.
The whole thing had been over in minutes, but the impact lingered. The man hadn't been suspicious. He hadn't asked strange questions or made veiled remarks. Just a regular cop doing his job, letting a tired guy off with a warning. It should've felt routine. Unremarkable. But after everything Daniel had just been through- the Survivalist, the camp that vanished without a trace, the fire that left no ash… it felt like reality had snapped back too quickly.
There had been no ominous undertone. No cryptic warning.
The officer had even smiled.
Daniel found that the most unsettling part. Not because there was anything wrong with it. But because it reminded him how normal the world still looked. The people here weren't extras in some horror story. They weren't waiting for something to go wrong. They were just living. Working. Starting their days the way they always had.
And that was the part that hit hardest.
Because he knew what was coming. Or at least pieces of it.
That cop, friendly and honest, might be dead before the end of this. Torn apart in a hallway. Shot in the back by someone he trusted. Or turned into one of those things that crawled or screamed or didn't die when they were supposed to.
Daniel shook his head once, hard. The thought clung like static. He rolled down the window farther and let the humid morning air blow in.
Ahead, a small gas station came into view. Nothing fancy. The kind of place with a single awning, a handful of pumps, and a corner shop attached. One of the signs out front advertised coffee and sandwiches with the same confidence as a place selling used tires. The other flickered faintly from a broken bulb.
He pulled in slowly and parked at the farthest pump. The engine sputtered once before cutting out. It was a confident sound that made him think he had a fifty-fifty chance of it starting back up again..
He got out, stretched, and moved around to fill the tank. The handle clicked softly into place. The pump was old, all knobs and buttons instead of the touchscreens he remembered from his time. He watched the numbers tick up.
Across the lot, a kid in a red vest leaned against the counter inside the store, arms folded, eyes glued to a small portable TV on the shelf. Daniel walked in as the chime over the door rang.
The air inside was cold. The shelves were stacked with chips, shrink-wrapped sandwiches, candy, and bottled drinks. Behind the counter, the teenager looked up and gave him a short nod.
"Morning."
Daniel nodded back. "Morning. You take cash?"
"Yeah," the kid said. "Card reader's busted anyway."
Daniel walked the aisles slowly. He wasn't really hungry, but his body needed something. He grabbed a canned coffee from a small fridge and a pre-packaged turkey sandwich that looked bland enough to be trustworthy. As he brought them to the counter, the kid glanced at him again.
"Passing through?" he asked.
Daniel hesitated, then smiled faintly. "Moving in, actually. Got a place in town."
"No kidding?" the kid said. "Lot of that going around. You here for an Umbrella job? Radio's been going on about some new public works thing they're hiring for."
"Eh, that's news to me." Daniel said, fishing out his wallet, then offered, "Sounds… interesting though. But nah, this is a personal move. Needed to get out of my old town."
The kid shrugged. "I feel that, man. Iunno though. Raccoon is nice and all but it's not New York or San Fran. Still, welcome I guess."
The kid scanned the items, punched in a few numbers, then bagged them. "That'll be three-eighty."
Daniel paid in cash, dropping a five and waving off the change.
The kid blinked, then pocketed the tip. "Thanks, man. And hey, good luck with everything."
"Thanks for the help," Daniel said, giving the kid a nod. "Take it easy."
"You too," the kid replied. Then he turned back to the small TV without another word.
Daniel stepped out into the lot again, the plastic bag rustling in his grip. The pump had clicked off at some point. He holstered the nozzle, replaced the cap, and got back into the car.
He sat there for a while, the cold can sweating against his thigh.
That had been… what, ten minutes?
A gas station. A sandwich. A kid who didn't care about anything beyond whatever was playing on that screen. It was so normal that it felt like gravity had shifted. Like his entire understanding of the world had been split in two. The strange, silent woods and the old man who dealt in tokens had been jarring. Made everything seem so monolithic.
But it wasn't. That was what was so jarring about the whole experience. This… was normal. People who were just living their lives. The gas station clerk, the cop, just waking up and going to work and watching TV and all the mundane things that people did.
He turned the key. The engine grumbled, coughed, and caught.
He pulled out onto the road again.
And ahead, the city waited.
The landscape began to change as the road brought him closer. The trees gave way to wide shoulders and long stretches of commercial fencing. The skyline, once distant and softened by haze, sharpened into a clutter of vertical lines; signs, rooftops, antennas. Raccoon City wasn't massive, but it tried to be. From a distance, it looked clean, organized, and almost picturesque.
The first buildings he passed were industrial. Warehouses with company logos, fenced-in lots with rusted trailers, and, most notably, distribution centers marked with Umbrella's faint red-and-white iconography. Daniel slowed slightly, watching it all slide past the windows. Even the buildings that didn't wear the logo felt touched by it. As if the city had been subtly redesigned around one idea.
He rolled past a tire shop, then a row of small houses with manicured lawns. Nothing about them stood out. They looked like homes anyone might live in. The kind that decorated every holiday, shot off fireworks on the Fourth, and were your every day working class family. It was the kind you never thought to question. The kind you lived next to your entire life and never knew the person two houses down from yours.
Then the city center emerged in full. Modern for the time. Not cutting-edge, but respectable. Glass-fronted businesses and retrofitted brick buildings stood side-by-side. The sidewalks were clean. The stoplights worked. Even the street signage looked freshly painted.
What struck Daniel most wasn't how strange it felt to be driving through a city that a day before, had only existed in his distant memories.
It was how normal everything looked. The places, the people, all of it, not out of place in any other midwestern city, and he's been to a few in his life. It was a city at the peak of its routine. That was the most unsettling thing. If he hadn't seen the big red-and-white Umbrella all over the damn place he would swear he was in Cleveland, or Illinois, or Louisville.
The past and the future blended uneasily here. All the solid brick from the 1950s dressed up with steel fixtures and mirrored panels. Modern over old. Aesthetic choices meant to give the impression of progress, but they didn't blend. They competed. The brickwork still showed beneath the corporate gloss, an age not quite scrubbed away.
The juxtaposition left a sour taste in his mouth.
The address for his apartment complex was easy to find. He took two right turns through a quieter stretch of downtown, then followed a narrow street lined with brownstones and single-car garages until the GPS led him to a three-story building with concrete stairs and faded green trim. It wasn't much to look at, but it had parking in the back and a wide staircase leading to his floor.
He parked.
His belongings, such as they were, fit into a single worn rucksack and three shallow boxes stacked in the back seat. He didn't own furniture. That had been part of the appeal. The place came furnished with the basics: a couch, a bed, a table, a kitchenette, and even it's own little laundry closet. At least, that's what his memory told him. Whether that memory was real or fabricated didn't matter. It matched the paperwork he'd found in the glovebox.
Daniel slung the rucksack over his shoulder, grabbed the first two boxes, and started toward the stairs.
He was halfway up the first flight when a voice called out ahead him.
"Hey-"
He flinched, startled, and the top box slipped. It tilted sharply in his arms and nearly fell. A hand, small and quick, darted out and caught it before it could crash to the ground.
"Whoa, sorry about that! I didn't mean to scare you," said the girl. "Just saw you juggling all that and figured you could use a hand."
Daniel blinked, still gripping the other box.
She was young. Early twenties, if that, he had to guess. Short brown hair in a pageboy cut, blue jeans, red tank top under a white overshirt tied loosely at the waist. She looked up at him with wide eyes and a slightly sheepish grin.
"Rebecca Chambers," she introduced herself, offering the box back into his arms once he was steady. "You moving in?"
"Uh, yeah," Daniel said. "Just got here. Daniel-uh, Danny Carter." He gave a guilless grin. "Nice to meet you, Rebecca."
"Nice to meet you too, Danny," she said brightly. "You're not the only new face. Seems like the city's pulling in all kinds lately. Me included."
There was something about her name. It tickled at the back of his memory, but the thought slid away before he could catch it. She was cute, though, in that sort of really energized puppy sort of way. He dug the vibe, if nothing else.
"Thanks for the help," he said, chuckling. "Didn't expect to get ambushed before I even made it to the second floor, but hey, not complaining."
Rebecca grinned. "Friendly fire, I promise. You need help with the rest of your stuff?"
He hesitated, then shook his head. "This is about it. Wasn't exactly planning a full move."
"Oh? Sudden change?"
"Yeah," he said, adjusting the rucksack on his shoulder. "You know how it goes. Got out of a thing, and figured I needed a reset."
She nodded, her smile softening. "I get that. Starting over's rough, but good. You'll be fine."
They climbed the stairs together, chatting about nothing in particular. She asked if he'd seen much of the city yet. He said no, just arrived. She mentioned a coffee shop three blocks down that didn't burn the beans, and a park that was decent for running in the mornings if you could beat the dog walkers.
By the time he reached his door, the conversation had settled into something easy.
Rebecca stood back as he unlocked it.
"Well, if you need anything; help unpacking, directions, whatever, I'm two doors down. Just knock."
Daniel offered a small, grateful smile. "Appreciate it. Same to you, if you need a hand."
"Definitely," she said. "Catch you later, Daniel."
She turned and walked back down the hall, humming something tuneless under her breath.
Daniel stepped inside.
The apartment was quiet. A little dusty. Sparse but furnished just as promised. He set the boxes down, dropped the ruck by the couch, and stood still for a long moment.
The quiet buzz of city life filtered faintly through the window. Doors opening. Tires crunching gravel. A dog barking three buildings down.
Just another day.
For now.
000
Evening crept in slowly, and Daniel barely noticed. The last box sat empty in the corner, folded flat beside the trash bin. His rucksack leaned against the wall by the door, untouched since he dropped it. He hadn't unpacked the coins. Hadn't touched the pouch. Just left it nestled between two shirts in the main compartment, like keeping it out of sight could delay the weight it carried.
The apartment was still and dim, lit only by the soft orange glow from a shaded lamp in the corner and the pale light spilling in from the street below. The city moved outside his window, humming with the familiar signs of life; car horns in the distance, the low murmur of passing conversation, tires rolling slow over rain-slick pavement. He could hear music somewhere down the block, a rhythm too muffled to place.
It was quiet. Peaceful, even.
And it was wrong.
Daniel sat on the edge of the couch, one hand wrapped around a sweating can of cheap soda, the other resting on his knee. The radio on the counter played softly, tuned to a local station that cycled through a mix of weather updates, light rock, and community chatter. For a while, he had let the noise settle over him, drowning out the looping thoughts. Letting it all blur.
He should have felt relieved. The apartment was clean. The move had gone smoothly. He'd met a friendly face in the stairwell. A cute one, too. Rebecca had a warmth to her, something genuine that felt completely out of place in the context of what he knew, or thought he knew. That smile, the easy conversation, the way she'd caught the box before it could fall, it had all felt... normal.
Strangely normal.
And that was the problem.
The more time he spent walking around this place, the harder it became to believe that everything was about to go wrong. The streets were clean. The people were friendly. Even the cop who pulled him over had been decent. This didn't feel like a town on the edge of something catastrophic. It felt like any other place he could have moved to after a bad breakup. The apartment, the job that was waiting for him in the morning, the friendly neighbor next door… it all fit too well.
Like a stage act I was never meant to notice the seams in. That I wouldn't, unless I already knew what was behind the curtain.
His eyes drifted to the window.
Pedestrians moved along the sidewalk, heads down, jackets pulled tighter against the chill. The corner store's neon sign flickered once, then steadied. A car pulled into the lot across the street. The city kept moving. As if it had nothing to hide.
He leaned back and let his head touch the wall behind him. His shoulders were tense and he hadn't realized it until they sagged under the weight of the moment.
The Survivalist came to mind.
That half-lit camp. The green crate. The weight of the coin in his hand. It felt like something from a dream. Something dug up from the space between sleep and waking, too sharp to be a hallucination but too strange to be trusted. The old man had left no trace, but Daniel couldn't shake the feeling of being measured, of being watched, not by malice, but by something entirely outside the normal shape of things.
He wanted to write it off. Chalk it up to stress. A break in routine. But the coins were still in his bag. The conversation still lived in the back of his head. Every time he thought about ignoring it, the words came back with clarity.
Then you gotta fight.
He closed his eyes.
For a moment, with the gentle rhythm of the radio and the scent of fabric softener clinging to the air, he could almost believe that none of this was real. That he'd just moved to a quiet city to start over. That he'd met someone nice. That things were settling into place.
Then the commercial started.
"…brought to you by Umbrella Pharmaceuticals. Our new product line, SafeT-Guard™, is now available at your local pharmacy. Because your health matters- to us."
Daniel's eyes snapped open.
The voice was too chipper. Too clean. The phrase hung in the air like a knife on the table. Something about the tone was just a little too rehearsed. A little too polished.
To us.
He stood slowly and walked to the window, setting the soda down on the sill.
The street outside looked no different.
But the illusion had cracked.
That name. That logo. That presence… woven into the radio, into the posters on bus stops, into the glass towers he had driven past without thinking.
It was here. In the bones of the city.
He watched a couple cross the street, laughing over something together. A man wheeled a cart past a parked sedan. Somewhere, a dog barked and a child called after it.
And none of them knew.
Daniel's hand tightened around the curtain. Today was an average, everyday day for these people. They had no idea what was coming, and a year felt so very short indeed.
