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.
Stupid, maybe. Impulsive, definitely. And if Chris is okay, we can laugh about how ridiculously paranoid I am ‘til the cows come home. But until I find out what’s going on, I won’t know a moment’s peace.
The last of the day’s light was draining from the strip of cloudless sky above, although a waxing, nearly full moon and the Softail’s headlight gave her enough light to see by—more than enough to see the small sign ahead on her left: RACCOON CITY 10.
Telling herself that Chris was fine, that if anything weird had happened in Raccoon, somebody would have checked it out by now, Claire forced her concen-tration back to handling the heavy bike. It would be full dark soon, but she’d be in Raccoon before it was too dark to ride safely.
Whether or not Raccoon City would be safe, she’d find out soon enough.
THREE
LEON REACHED THE OUTSKIRTS OF TOWN with twenty minutes to spare, but decided that a hot dinner was going to have to wait. From his previous visits to the station, he knew that there were a couple of vending machines he could hit up for something to tide him over. The thought of stale candy and peanuts didn’t sit well on his growling stomach, but it was his own damned fault for not taking New York traffic into account.
The drive into the city proper did a lot to soothe his still rattled nerves; he passed the few small farms
that lay east of town, the fairgrounds and storage sheds, and finally the truck stop that marked the separation of rural Raccoon from urban. Something about know-ing that he was going to be patrolling those back roads before long, keeping them safe, gave him a surprising sense of well-being and not a little pride. The early autumn air from the open window was pleasantly brisk, and the rising moon bathed everything he saw in a silvery glow. He wasn’t going to be late after all; within the hour, he’d officially become one of Rac-coon’s finest.
As Leon turned the Jeep down Bybee, heading for one of the main north-south streets that would take him to the RPD building, he got his first hint that something was very wrong. In the first few blocks, he was mildly surprised; by the fifth, he found himself slipping toward a state of shock. It wasn’t just strange, it was ... well, it was impossible.
Bybee was the first real city street, coming from the east, where buildings outnumbered empty lots.
There were several espresso bars and cheap diners, as well as a bargain movie theater that never seemed to run anything but horror movies and sexy comedies—and was therefore the most popular hangout for the youth of Raccoon. There were even a few genetically hip taverns that served microbrew and hot rum drinks for the winter college-student ski crowd. At quarter to nine on a Saturday night, Bybee should have been teeming with life.
But of the mostly single or two-story brick shops and restaurants that lined the street, Leon saw that almost all were dark—and in the few that still boasted some light, it didn’t look like there was anyone inside. There were plenty of cars parked along the narrow street, and yet not one person that he could see; Bybee, the hangout for cruising teens and college students, was totally deserted.
Where the hell is everybody?
His mind grasped for answers as he crept down the silent street, searching desperately for a reason—and for some way to alleviate the sweaty anxiety that had once again settled over him. Maybe there was some kind of an event going on, a church function, like a spaghetti feed. Or perhaps Raccoon had decided to take up Oktoberfest and tonight was the big kickoff. Yeah, but everybody at the same time? It’d have to be one hell of a party.
It was then that Leon realized he also hadn’t seen a single car on the road since he’d had the scare with the dog ten miles out of town. Not one. And with that thoroughly unsettling realization came the next—less dramatic, but distinctly more immediate.
Something smelled bad. In fact, something smelled like shit.
Jeez, dead skunk. And apparently it threw up on itself before dying.
He’d already slowed the Jeep to a crawl and had planned to take a left on Powell, just a block ahead—but that horrible smell and the total absence of life were giving him a serious case of the creeps. Maybe he should stop and check things out, look around for some sign of—
“Oh, hey_”
Leon grinned, relief flooding through his confusion. There were a couple of people standing at the corner, practically right in front of him; the streetlight was out on their side, but he could see them in silhouette clear enough—a couple, a woman in a skirt and a big man wearing work boots. As he got closer he could see by the way they moved, heading south on Powell, that they had to be monumentally drunk. Both of them staggered into the shadows cast by an office supply store and out of sight; but he