Chapter 1: Welcome to Raccoon City
Hi. My name is Lysander Aurelius Maximus. Cool name, right? It's not entirely my real name, by the way. My actual last name is Maximus, but I gave myself the 'Lysander Aurelius' part to sound like a badass after I suddenly got dragged into this lovely, flesh-eating world.
In reality, I am a thirty-six-year-old guy whose main survival skills include swallowing magnesium supplements for stress, complaining about the Malaysian weather, and troubleshooting PC crashes after soul-crushing 12-hour desk shifts.
And right now, I am standing in the freezing rain, staring at the towering, Gothic iron gates of the Raccoon City Police Department, frantically trying to convince myself that the rotting, groaning man dragging his shattered leg toward me is just a very dedicated, albeit unhygienic, cosplayer.
How did this happen? That is a truly fantastic question.
It started out as a completely normal, exhaustion-filled Tuesday. I had just dragged myself away from the keyboard after a brutal shift.
My brain felt like mashed potatoes, and my lower back was loudly reminding me that I was closer to forty than thirty. I didn't want to think; I just wanted to survive a zombie apocalypse from the comfort of my own ergonomic desk chair.
I booted up my PC, the crisp glow of my monitor illuminating the dark room. The heavy, ominous menu theme of the Resident Evil 2 Remake rumbled through my speakers. I loaded up my save file, ready to guide my character through the police station, when it happened.
My PC did that infuriating thing where it completely hard-freezes. The screen locked up, the audio glitched into an awful, stuttering buzz, and then—the screen went completely, dead black.
I groaned, leaning forward to check the cables. "Come on, not again," I muttered. I reached for the power button on the tower.
The moment my finger brushed the plastic, a blinding, crackling blue light erupted from the monitor. It was so bright it physically pushed me back. I squeezed my eyes shut, throwing my arms up over my face as a sound like shattered glass echoed in my ears.
When I opened my eyes, my comfortable gaming chair was gone.
I was lying flat on my back on freezing, wet asphalt.
I sat up slowly, my head spinning. The air smelled foul—a disgusting mix of old copper, wet ash, and rotting meat. A freezing rain was coming down hard, soaking right through my shirt.
"Okay. Very funny," I whispered to myself, my voice trembling. "Did I fall asleep? I definitely fell asleep at the desk."
I patted my pockets out of pure instinct and felt a familiar shape. I yanked out my phone and flipped it open. Zero bars. No signal whatsoever. But the flashlight worked.
I turned the beam outward, cutting through the heavy rain. The light hit a massive, ornate iron gate. And right behind it loomed a colossal, Gothic building that I had spent the last two hours staring at on a screen.
Raccoon City Police Department. I let out a breathy, nervous laugh.
Then, a low, wet, gurgling sound echoed from an alleyway to my left.
I swung the flashlight over. A man stumbled out of the shadows. His jaw was hanging on by a literal thread of muscle, and he was dragging a leg that bent at a sickening, unnatural angle. He turned his head toward the light, his eyes completely clouded over with a milky white film.
He let out a guttural hiss and lunged toward me.
That was the exact moment the shock hit me like a physical blow to the chest. The smell was too bad, the rain was too cold, and the sheer, primal terror freezing my blood was way too intense for a dream.
Sheer, unadulterated panic completely overrode my brain. My 36-year-old legs, which usually only sprinted to the kitchen to grab a snack, kicked into a gear I didn't know they had.
I bolted past the shambling zombie, dodging a grabbing hand by mere inches, and threw myself toward the heavy front doors of the RPD.
I slammed my shoulder against the wood, bursting into the main hall and shoving the doors shut behind me. I leaned back against them, sliding down to the cold marble floor, gasping for air.
I was trapped in the Raccoon City Police Department.
"Okay, Lysander, think," I whispered to myself, the sound of my own voice echoing way too loudly. "You know this place. You just need to find the main characters."
That was the entire survival plan. Find Claire Redfield or Leon Kennedy and stick to them like absolute glue. I forced my stiff knees to cooperate and pushed myself off the floor.
I made my way to the front reception desk. Behind the counter, a solitary laptop sat open, its screen casting a pale, flickering glow over the scattered paperwork.
My heart did a painful flip. Where is Lieutenant Marvin Branagh? The couch was empty. Instead, a dark, wet smear of red led away from it, disappearing into the pitch-black gap beneath the West Wing security shutter.
Suddenly, the laptop screen crackled with harsh static. The grainy security feed cleared up, showing the East Wing hallway. A lone police officer was sprinting down the narrow, debris-filled corridor, desperately firing his handgun over his shoulder.
"Help! Is anyone out there?! Get this shutter open!" his voice crackled through the speakers.
Elliot.
A cold sweat broke out on the back of my neck. I knew exactly what was about to happen to him.