The Humvee bumped and jostled along the narrow forest road, its headlights cutting through the inky blackness like twin blades. Inside, the four soldiers maintained their stern vigil over the prisoner, Billy Coen. The stocky, tattooed man sat resigned in handcuffs, dressed in a tight muscle shirt that showed off his burly frame.

Billy gazed out into the fog-shrouded night, where shadows seemed to skulk just out of sight. For a moment, he thought he glimpsed four-legged shapes fleeing through the trees, but they faded into the gloom as quickly as they appeared. A flicker of unease passed over his face.

Up ahead, the driver squinted into the murk, searching for obstacles. Without warning, an massive shape loomed in their path, too late to swerve. The silhouette of a moose stood frozen in the headlights, enormous antlers branching overhead. With barely a second to react, the driver wrenched the steering wheel in desperation.

"What the-?" he yelled.

"Look out!" Billy shouted.

The guards threw up their arms in defense as the Humvee plowed into the hulking animal. A sickening crunch echoed through the forest, followed by an eerie silence.

The Humvee now slumped tilted against a tree, wisps of smoke curling from its hood. The moose sprawled across what remained of the windshield, legs splayed at unnatural angles. Blood seeped from its nostrils.

Billy slowly came to, his head pounding. He was alone. Unbuckling his seatbelt, he slipped out the back door and into the night. Scarlet droplets marked a path into the trees - one of the guards must be injured. Billy hurried to snatch up a discarded handgun and a ring of keys, slippery with blood. As soon as the cuffs clicked free, a crackling in the underbrush put him on alert. He dove for cover, flicking off the safety and leveling his gun into the shadows.

"Hands up or I'll shoot!" he yelled, finger tightening on the trigger.

The forest fell silent except for the whispering wind. The busted headlights blinked erratically, illuminating then abandoning the scene. Low grunts sent a spike of adrenaline through Billy's veins. His eyes betrayed uncertainty as the sounds grew louder, more guttural. A blast of cold wind swept between him and the unseen threat...why did it feel like the woods themselves were recoiling?

The morning light filtered softly through the large glass windows of the cozy cafeteria, casting a warm glow on the scattered wooden tables dotted with businessmen and women enjoying their breakfast. In the corner, two waiters chatted in hushed voices next to a wall adorned with abstract paintings, their white shirts and black vests crisp and tidy.

At a table by the window, a balding elderly man in a neatly tailored brown suit struggled to swallow a sip of tea, his wrinkled hands trembling as he set the floral teacup down onto its matching saucer. The clinking of silverware and the murmur of conversation from the surrounding patrons created a steady hum in the background.

"Chit-chatting aside, how did the meeting with the board go?" asked Marcus, the man sitting across from him had a full head of long, steely gray hair and wore an executive-cut deep blue suit that hugged his thin frame. His words curled around his British accent.

"Oh, splendid, always nice to visit home. Definitely a trip full of...surprises," replied the British man with a wry smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

Marcus raised an eyebrow. "It seemed out of the ordinary for you to arrange a meeting in such a...modest place."

The British man waved his hand dismissively. "Oh, don't talk to me like I'm Edward. I just thought we'd get away from the eccentricities for a moment and cherish what we've built here, remember what this place used to be like?"

Marcus nodded, a flicker of reminiscence in his eyes. "A couple of houses and a coffee shop run by a very grumpy woman."

"A ghost town, a truck stop for gas and a hamburger. But now, look around us...progress, civilization blooming from nothing." The British man gestured around the busy cafeteria, satisfaction etched on his aged face.

Marcus snorted. "The tea still stinks like sewage."

The two men chuckled together, a sincere, easy laughter between old friends. At the sound, a couple at a nearby table glanced over in recognition and began whispering to each other behind raised hands.

The British man's smile faded as he stared contemplatively into the dredges of his tea. "Do you think it was all worth it in the end, Marcus? Every mouth we silenced, every sin we committed in anonymity... did our ends truly justify the means?"

Marcus froze, teacup halfway to his lips, startled by the sudden solemn turn in the conversation. His eyes clouded with anguish as he observed a family across the cafeteria - two delighted parents fussing over their young son as he gleefully crammed pancakes into his mouth.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

Marcus sighed deeply, regret carved into the lines of his face. "It's thirty years too late for doubts, my friend. Don't you think?"

The British man nodded slowly. "You're right, old chap. I suppose age has made me too introspective." He began to push his chair back and stand up from the table. "I should get back to work. The living don't rest."

As the British man reached for his coat, a phone began to ring somewhere in the distance.

"You've barely touched your tea," Marcus protested with a frown.

"Oh, pardon my terrible manners." The British man quickly downed the remaining tea in one large gulp, the floral liquid dripping down his chin. He shook Marcus' hand firmly before blending into the crowd, discreetly pulling a silver flask from his coat pocket and taking a long swig as he walked away.

The police station was a hive of activity, with phones ringing incessantly and officers rushing about with urgency. In the cafeteria, the buzz of multiple conversations competed with the blare of the tube TV broadcasting the evening news.

On screen, the neatly groomed news presenter spoke in authoritative tones. "After the grim events that took place in the Arklay Mountains, Raccoon City has been plunged into a state of high alert following a spate of vicious attacks in urban areas."

The news presenter continued, "We have established contact with an alleged member of the forensic investigation team who claims insider knowledge about these mysterious murders. This individual has agreed to provide us with a live interview on condition of anonymity."

The presenter turned to face the camera directly. "Alysson Kurt is our field reporter assigned to conduct this controversial interview. Alysson, are you there?"

The view switched to a dimly lit room where a petite brunette woman sat rigidly across from a silhouette obscured by shadows. A small voice mic was clipped neatly to the collar of her crisp button-down shirt.

"Good evening, Paul. I can hear you clearly," she responded, betraying no emotion. Her gaze remained fixed on the indistinct figure seated across from her.

"We are here with an insider source from the forensic team investigating the recent spate of horrific murders plaguing our city. From the young woman brutally killed near Mable River on May 20th to the elderly man murdered in a back-alley just days ago, the unanswered questions continue to mount while the authorities remain tight-lipped."

She continued, "This mystery informant claims to possess information about these killings that officials are allegedly unwilling to disclose publicly. Good evening to you, sir. You've made the incendiary accusation that there are details being deliberately withheld from the public. What information could be so sensitive that it warrants such secrecy? Are the rumors of a crazed religious cannibal cult actually true?"

The silhouette leaned forward into a shaft of light, revealing a blurred middle-aged man with heavy bags under his eyes and a week's worth of stubble. He rubbed his temples wearily before responding in a gravelly baritone.

"As incredible as the eyewitness accounts may seem, our investigations have made it definitively clear that at least some of them are not simply mass hysteria or wild imagination. The traumatized survivors described being attacked by what could only be characterized as some variant of rabid wolf."

He hesitated, seeming to choose his next words carefully. "However, the homeless man and the couple at the gas station showed unmistakable signs of having been partially...cannibalized."

Alysson reacted with visible shock, her composure momentarily broken. She stared wordlessly into the camera for a long moment, the horrific implications slowly sinking in.

Brian Irons, the imposing chief of the Raccoon City Police Department, furrowed his bushy eyebrows as he angrily muted the babbling television reporters.

"Can somebody answer that damn phone?" he bellowed, his voice booming through the bustling office.

A flustered young officer scrambled to pick up the incessantly ringing phone, tangling himself in the coiled telephone cord in his haste.

"Raccoon City Police Department, how may I help you?" the officer stammered into the receiver. His eyes widened as the caller described some sort of attack on the public.

"Where exactly did this happen? When was this reported?" He frantically scrawled details on a notepad, nearly dropping the pen in his nervousness. "Yes sir, I have all the information. Please give me just a moment more."

Cupping his hand over the mouthpiece, he shouted across the office, "Where is the damn receptionist?!"

At that moment, Irons stormed into the room, slamming the door forcefully behind him. His hulking frame seemed to fill the entire doorway as his steely gaze swept over the busy office. With imposing strides, he made his way through the crowded cubicles, hunting for Deputy Chief Marvin Branagh.

He found Branagh speaking with another officer near the back of the room. "Branagh!" Irons bellowed. "I've got those idiot reporters harassing me about what I plan to do about this fiasco. For both your sake and your pension, you better confirm Bravo Team is already on that damn helicopter!"

Branagh met the chief's glare steadily. "They departed an hour ago, sir. We should receive an update soon."

"Keep me informed," Irons growled. "I want to feed those vultures something so I can take a shit in peace without constant calls."

He turned and stalked away, leaving Branagh staring after him with a mixture of weariness and unease.

It was a murky night, the perennially tranquil pine trees obscuring the void even further. In the distance, the helicopter carrying Bravo team soared above the forest, trailing smoke in its wake.

"We're losing altitude!" Edward Dewey yelled over the blaring alarm and constant turbulence that had transformed the chopper's interior into chaos. The crew grappled with their gear, straining to maintain composure. Rebecca, the youngest member, was clearly the most rattled.

With great difficulty, Edward maneuvered the damaged aircraft into a precarious but safe descent. "The engine's hit. We'll have to make an emergency landing. Hold on tight!" he bellowed.

The helicopter lurched earthward, landing with a jolt that left only Edward still aboard.

"Dewey, check the engine. The rest of you, scout our position and sweep the area. We're not in friendly territory," Enrico Marini commanded, his gravelly voice belying his anxiety.

Peering into the mist, the gunner, Kenneth Sullivan spotted a faint light flickering in the distance like a help signal. "Captain, look!" he exclaimed, training his flashlight on the ghostly glow that somehow penetrated the fog.